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FROM    THE   LIBRARY   OF 
REV.    LOUIS    FITZGERALD    BENSON.   D.  D. 

BEQUEATHED    BY   HIM    TO 

THE    LIBRARY   OF 

PRINCETON   THEOLOGICAL   SEMINARY 


9f¥2> 


MY    OLD    LETTERS. 


ois  6  o  yepcov  /xererjcTLV,  afia  7rpocr(Toi  kcli  ottl(T(TQ) 
Xevao-ei,  oVoos  6)1  apicrra  fxer   afi(f>OT€poL<jL  yevTjTai. 

Iliad,  Book  III.  109. 


gpt  Or  Pft/jj^ 


a  FEB  1H936  . 
RICH  6' '  ^ 


&, 


MY   OLD   LETTERS 


HORATIUS     BONAR,    D.D. 


NEW    YORK 

ROBERT    CARTER    &    BROTHERS 

No.    530    BROADWAY 

1877 


Nos  tecta  fovebimus  ossa 
Violis  et  fronde  frequenti : 

Titulumque  et  frigida  saxa 

Liquido  spargemus  odore. 

Prudentius. 


Murray  &•  Gibb,  Edinburgh, 
Printers  to  Her  Majesty's  Stationery  Office. 


Not  written  down  in  haste,  but  in  the  quiet 

Of  thoughtful  seasons,  still  to  memory  dear, 
When  the  whole  soul  was  calm,  and  the  world's  riot, 

Even  in  its  echo,  came  not  to  my  ear ; 

What  I  have  thought,  and  felt,  and  seen,  and  heard  is  here. 


Sometimes  the  cloud,  but  oft  the  happier  noonlight 
Floated  above  me,  as  I  mused  and  sung: 

At  times  the  stars,  at  times  the  mellow  moonlight 
Gave  ripeness  to  the  fruit  of  pen  and  tongue, 
While  o'er  my  ravelled  dreams  the  years  and  ages  hung. 


In  days  of  public  strife,  whe?i,  sharp  and  stinging, 
The  angry  words  went  daily  to  and  fro, 

Friend  against  friend  the  polished  missiles  flinging, 
Each  seeking  who  could  launch  the  keenest  blow, 
I  went  to  thee,  my  harp,  and  bade  thy  numbers  flow. 


In  hours  of  heaviness  thy  solace  seeking, 
I  took  thee  up  and  woke  the  trembling  tone 

Of  the  deep  melody  within  thee,  speakitig 
Like  the  heart-broken  thrush,  that  sits  alone, 
Mourning  its  spoiled  nest  and  all  its  nestlings  gone. 


Into  these  pages  peace-thoughts  weave  their  brightness  ; 
The  peace  that  has  been,  is,  and  is  to  be, 

Is  here  ;  peace-blossoms  in  their  tranquil  whiteness 
I've  shaken,  as  I  passed  from  tree  to  tree, 
Relics  of  many  a  strange  and  broken  history. 


Lie  there,  my  pen  I    Only  a  little  longer, 

And  then  thy  work  shall  be  for  ever  done ; 
Death  in  these  pulses  daily  groweth  stronger ; 

Life's  ruby  drops  are  oozing  one  by  one  ; 

The  dreams  that  flowed  thro'  thee  shall  soon  be  dreamed  alone  i 

Rest  kindly  now,  beside  what  thou  hast  written  : 
Let  that  a  little  longer  linger  here  ; 

By  age  unwithered,  and  by  time  unsmitten, 
True  leaves  of  health,  that  nroer  can  grow  sere, 
From  the  great  tree  of  life,  plant  of  a  purer  sphere! 

Thou  art  the  lute  with  which  I  sang  my  sadness, 
I  Vhcn  sadness  like  a  cloud  begirt  my  way  ; 

Thou  art  the  harp  whose  strings  gave  out  my  gladness, 
When  burst  the  sunshine  of  a  happier  day, 
Resting  upon  my  soul  with  sweet  and  silent  ray. 

The  sickle  thou  with  which  I  have  been  reaping 
My  great  life-harvest  here  on  earth  ;  and  ?iow 

'Mid  these  ?ny  sheaves  I  lay  me  down  unwecping, — 
Nay,  full  of  joy,  in  life  s  still  evening-glow, 
And  wipe  the  reapers  szveatfrom  this  toil-furrowed  brow. 


From  this  right  hand  its  cunning  is  departing, 
This  wrinkled  palm  proclaims  its  work  is  done  : 

Look  back,  fond  reaper,  to  thy  place  of  starting, — 

Days,  months,  and  years,  a  lifetime  past  and  gone  ;— 
Say,  which  is  best,  thy  rising  or  thy  setting  sun  f 


I  may  not  stay.      These  hills  that  smile  around  me 
Are  full  of  music,  and  its  happy  glow 

Beckons  me  upward ;  all  that  here  has  bound  me 
Seems  now  dissolving ;  daily  I  outgrow 
The  chains  and  drags  of  earth.     I  rise,  I  go,  I  go  ! 

The  Grange,  August  1876. 


CONTENTS. 


BOOK  I., 
BOOK  II., 
BOOK  III., 
BOOK  IV., 
BOOK  V.. 
BOOK  VI.. 
BOOK  VII., 
BOOK  VIII., 
BOOK  IX., 
BOOK  X. , 
BOOK  XL, 
BOOK  XII., 


33 

59 

S2 

10S 

*34 

159 
191 
222 

-5i 
285 
320 


MY  OLD   LETTERS. 


BOOK    I. 

Like  the  November  leaves  they  lie  around  me, 
In  broken  heaps,  or  spread  out  one  by  one ; 
Older  or  newer,  in  their  varied  forms, 
Memorials  of  a  spring  too  quickly  past : 
Each  leaf  the  relic  of  a  well-known  tree, 
Now  bare,  or  vanished  from  the  forest  crowd, 
Of  which  it  was  in  other  Mays  the  king. 

The  sun  of  yesterday  has  set  for  ever, 
The  beacon-gleam  across  the  wave  is  quenched, 
The  sparkle  of  last  midnight's  torch  is  gone, 
The  footprints  on  the  sand  are  all  erased, 
The  snow  has  melted  from  the  rock,  the  dew 
Has  at  the  dawn  dissolved :  all  these  are  things 
That  go,  and  come  not  back  again  to  us. 

Far  more  abiding  are  these  time-stained  pages, 
Dumb,  and  yet  eloquent  in  every  line ; 
Old  love  and  faith  making  the  faded  fresh, 
And  lights  of  other  years  still  beaming  there, 
Unblanched  and  tender  as  when  first  they  shone. 

Half-folded,  disarranged,  they  lie  ;  yet  each 


MY  OLD  LETTERS.  [line  21. 

Distinct  with  a  deep  history  of  its  own. 

Like  the  ancestral  portraits  on  the  wall, 

Or  names  engraven  on  the  granite  plinth, 

Or  golden  locket  which  enshrines  the  love 

Of  loving  years  and  hearts,  they  alter  not 

With  the  caprice  of  time  or  fickle  seasons ; 

Dead,  yet  alive,  retaining  in  their  folds 

Perpetual  vigour  and  perennial  youth. 

Not  like  the  pressure  of  now  clay-cold  fingers, 

Nor  like  the  dream  of  faces  seen  no  more  ; 

Nor  echoes  of  dear  footsteps  passing  by, 

Nor  songs  once  heard  from  voices  long  since  mute  ;  — 

Theirs  is  a  yesterday  that  changes  not, 

Except  to  ripen  and  grow  mellower  still ; 

Theirs  is  a  register  of  soul,  which  shall 

Remain  unblotted,  perfect  as  at  first, 

Till  he  who  reads  them  now  shall  close  his  eyes, 

And  lay  down  thankfully  his  wearied  head 

Upon  the  pillow  of  the  restful  earth. 

They  tell  that  oft,  when  the  old  walls  are  down, 
And  their  foundations  flung  upon  the  moor, 
Evanishing  amid  the  ebb  of  ages  ; 
When  every  stone  of  the  paternal  hall 
Has  crumbled,  and  commingled  with  the  soil  ; 
When  the  rough  elm,  first  planted  ages  since 
On  the  heir's  wedding-day,  or  shining  beech 
That  lined  the  avenue  or  graced  the  lawn, 
Has  fallen,  the  old  garden-flowers  are  found 
Springing  unbidden  from  the  faithful  earth, 
True  to  the  soil,  the  season,  and  the  sun  ; 
While  here  and  there  a  moss-wrapt  relic  grey 


line  52.]  BOOK  I. 

Of  ancient  orchard,  not  without  its  fruit, 

Spreads  wide  its  boughs  to  the  bland  August  breeze. 

They  say  that  in  some  spots  (I  know  them  well, 
The  quiet  slope,  the  glen,  the  purple  moor), 
Where  martyrs  died,  or  holy  men  once  met 
Under  the  watchful  sky  to  worship  God, 
Sounds  sweet  as  heaven  are  heard  in  sunny  hours 
(When  the  year's  round  recalls  the  faded  past), 
Rising  like  fragrance  from  the  sod,  as  if 
The  soil  had  drunk  the  notes  of  holier  days, 
And  loved  at  times  to  give  them  out  again, 
Sweetened  with  age,  rich  with  unearthly  peace. 
Such  are  to  me  these  fragments  of  green  years, 
These  pages  that  give  out,  each  time  I  touch  them, 
The  unchanged  melodies  locked  up  within  ; 
Still  full  of  noon,  and  noon-day  life,  though  they 
Who  wrote  them  long  have  left  us  for  the  tomb. 

Each  letter,  with  its  wonted  signature, 
The  seal  and  date,  and  place  of  dear  abode, 
The  street,  the  city,  or  the  rural  home, 
Takes  the  soul  back  to  unforgotten  scenes, 
To  hopes  and  fears  of  the  calm  long  ago, 
Features  and  friendships  of  more  radiant  days, 
The  dreams  and  passions  of  the  swelling  soul, 
Voices  once  warm  and  eloquent,  now  dumb. 
The  rocks  o'er  which  the  breakers  went  and  came, 
The  valley  with  its  stream,  the  beckoning  hill 
Which  oft  we  climbed  together,  or  the  room 
In  which  we  sat  with  some  lost  friend  or  child 
A  shrub,  a  flower,  a  tree  beneath  whose  shade 
We  lay  in  summer  as  we  talked  and  read  ; 


MY  OLD  LETTERS.  [line  83. 

A  book,  a  thought,  a  sorrow,  or  a  joy, 

A  jest,  an  argument,  a  dreamy  tale  ; 

A  death,  a  birth,  a  wedding,  or  a  tomb, 

A  parting  or  a  meeting  ;  or  a  stroll 

Of  love  or  friendship,  when  one  soul  pours  out 

Into  another  all  its  busy  dreams, 

Gazing  upon  the  sea,  or  wondering  stars, 

Or  gold-begotten  clouds  of  royal  morn, 

Or  earth-enamoured  moon,  that  smiles  in  love 

Upon  a  scene  that  answers  smile  for  smile: — 

These  are  the  things  which,  graven  deep  on  each 

Pale  line,  bring  back  whole  worlds  of  history. 

They  who  made  up  our  life  are  dying  daily, 
Yet  the  life-current  of  the  world  flows  on, 
And  we  have  but  to  wander  by  its  edge, 
And  gather  up  the  relics  flung  ashore. 
We  are  all  orphans  ;  every  leaf  that  fails 
But  addeth  to  the  orphanage  of  earth  ; 
And  as  each  yesterday  breaks  off,  and  joins 
The  past,  we  feel  our  being  less  complete. 

In  every  line, — some  clear  as  at  the  first, 
Like  the  new-carved  inscription,  others  like 
Grey  tombstones  with  their  half-worn  epitaphs, — 
I  feel  the  throbbing  of  a  kindred  heart 
That  beats  no  more  ;  I  recognise  the  flash 
Of  eyes  now  closed ;  I  clasp  the  hand  that  once 
Clasped  mine  and  pledged  immortal  constancy, 
As  if  it  never  could  relax  its  grasp, 
Or  lose  the  warmth  with  which  it  folded  mine. 

Looking  at  these  mute  relics  of  the  spring, — 
My  spring  and  theirs  whom  love  had  knit  to  me, 


line  1 14.]  BOOK  I.  5 

Preserved  like  pearls  from  robber  or  decay, — 

Turning  their  withered  pages  o'er  and  o'er, 

I  seem  to  sit  upon  a  cliff  of  echoes, 

Round  which  float  up  from  the  still  vales  below 

Or  woods  beyond,  all  voices  and  all  sounds 

Of  melody  and  speech,  of  harp  and  tongue  ; 

The  music  of  a  lifetime  garnered  there  : 

Some  the  first  breathings  of  a  clinging  heart, 

Some  the  last  syllables  of  love,  as  if, 

Stretched  to  its  full,  the  last  string  broke  in  twain 

With  the  low  note  that  ended  the  last  song. 

More  in  the  garden  grows  than  what  is  sown  ; 
Not  weeds  alone,  but  flowers  come  up  unbidden, 
Sown  by  the  careful  winds.     So  here  I  mark 
Not  the  parched  petal,  but  the  vital  seed  ; 
For  each  word  dropping  from  the  lip  or  pen 
Of  man  or  woman  is  a  seed  that  dies  not, 
Wafted  afar,  to  spring  we  know  not  where. 

O  loving  winds,  that  bear  such  seeds  as  these 
Into  my  garden,  and  there  lay  them  down 
To  be  a  lifetime's  sweetness,  in  which  all 
The  hoarded  essence  of  the  past  I  find  ; 
To  be  to  me,  in  this  the  gentle  twilight 
And  silence  of  these  now  retreating  years, 
Like  the  night-blooming  flower,  that  only  spreads 
Its  beauty  and  its  odour  to  the  stars. 

And  all  the  months  are  here  ;  true  waymarks,  not 
Linked  only  with  old  seasons  and  old  suns, 
But  with  the  changes  of  a  human  heart : 
Here  are  life's  hues,  its  marvellous  mosaic, 
The  rough  and  smooth  of  mortal  history. 


MY  OLD  LETTERS.  [line  145. 

Capricious  April  with  its  clouds  is  here, 
Scattering  its  daffodils,  or  showering  down 
Daisies  like  silver  rain  to  stud  the  fields  : 
May  with  its  forest-buds  and  orchard-bloom: 
June  with  its  length  of  fervent  day,  all  light, 
All  incense  :  July  taking  on  the  tinge 
Of  chastened  calm,  as  if  the  hastening  year 
Had  passed  its  noon  ;  maturer  sunshine  now 
Kindly  dispensing,  when  the  ripe  rich  air 
Breathes  o'er  the  burnished  corn,  by  day  and  night, 
Pouring  its  magic  wealth  into  each  blade 
Of  swelling  grain,  and  bidding  harvest  haste 
To  the  embrace  of  the  impatient  sickle  : 
Dear  August,  month  of  sunny  memories, 
Of  idle  wanderings  by  the  welcome  sea, 
Of  reveries  by  rock  and  waterfall ; 
Its  fields  of  white,  with  the  lark's  chant  above, 
The  reaper's  song  below  at  joyous  dawn  ; 
Its  school-boy  holidays  of  liberty, 
Its  shadowy  mountains  blazing  to  the  top 
With  the  full-blossomed  heath  :  October  brown, 
Type  of  the  worn-out  year,  disrobing  earth 
For  her  dark  wintry  sleep  :  November  dull, 
Fickle  as  April,  with  its  falling  stars, 
Seeming  as  if  the  torches  of  the  heavens, 
In  preparation  for  the  coming  dark, 
Were  shaken,  that  they  might  shine  freshly  out 
With  keener  brilliance  thro'  the  crystal  air : 
Austere  December,  sternly  laying  down 
Its  bed  of  ice  and  coverlet  of  snow, 
For  the  o'er-weary  earth,  till  spring  return. 


line  176.]  BOOK  I.  7 

We  bear  with  winter,  for  it  has  its  sweets  ; 
But  never  long  for  it,  and  always  sigh 
For  the  green  spring-life,  and  the  summer-breath, 
The  months  of  resurrection  and  of  song. 
Go,  Winter,  go,  we  say,  and  let  the  snowdrops, 
Like  buried  stars,  burst  up  ;  the  primroses, 
Fair  daughters  of  the  forest  and  the  shade, 
Wave  their  pale  golden  coronets  around  ; 
The  leafless  almond-bloom  invite  the  bee 
To  taste  its  new-born  nectar,  virgin-pure ; 
The  willow-buds  by  the  glad  watercourse 
Swell  into  rounded  freshness  ;  in  the  wood 
The  wind-flower  woo  the  breeze  it  loves  so  well. 

They  go  and  come  again,  these  months  of  change, 
But  they  who  made  them  what  they  were  come  not : 
The  casket  is  the  same,  the  gem  is  fled ; 
The  chalice  sparkles,  but  the  wine  is  drained  ; 
The  sky  endureth,  but  the  stars  have  left. 
Graves  far  and  near  are  all  that  now  remain, 
And  Memory,  taking  up  each  cherished  name, 
Hides  it  securely  in  her  holiest  urn. 

Strange  is  the  life  of  others  seen  by  us 
Onlooking  quietly,  as  from  the  shore 
Appears  the  silent  ship  in  the  dim  offing, 
Passing  us  by  we  know  not  whither  bound. 
More  strange  the  life  now  gone,  of  which  we  once 
Formed  part,  but  which  long  since  has  quitted  us  ; 
Outstripping  us  and  moving  out  of  sight 
On  the  broad  deep,  or  at  our  very  side, 
In  some  tempestuous  midnight,  going  down 
With  its  large  freightage  'neath  the  surge  of  time. 


MY  OLD  LETTERS.  [line  207. 

Strange,  too,  our  own  lives,  giving  forth  each  hour 

Their  mysteries  of  motion  or  of  rest. 

But  yesterday  my  heart  could  not  be  still 

For  joy  ;  the  throbbing  sunshine  shook  it  all ; 

The  very  air  was  trembling  with  the  light. 

To-day  that  heart  refuses  to  be  calm 

For  grief,  which  as  a  tempest  seizes  me, 

And  sweeps  me  on  like  cloud  of  night  that  has 

No  anchor,  and  no  pilot,  and  no  helm. 

And  in  these  letters  all  this  life  of  mine, 
Mirrored  in  lives  of  others,  rises  up. 
My  perplexed  being  is  unriddled  here, 
And  I  begin  to  understand  myself, 
Tho'  shrinking  from  the  mirror  held  up  thus  ; 
I  see  what  once  I  was,  what  now  I  am, 
And  many  a  mystery  becometh  clear. 
I  see  the  path,  the  thicket,  and  the  goal, 
The  folly  that  I  chose,  the  truth  I  shunned  ; 
The  error,  and  the  evil,  and  the  light, 
The  prison-house  and  the  deliverance  ; 
The  half-fought  battle  and  the  vile  defeat, 
Yet  sometimes,  too,  the  noble  victory  ; 
The  spoken  or  unspoken  thought  of  sin  ; 
The  hasty  word,  uttered  and  then  recalled, 
The  angry  tone  when  yet  the  speech  was  gentle ; 
The  weariness  and  the  reviving  strength, 
The  low  despair  and  the  rekindling  hope ; 
The  fearless  faith  or  dark  uncertainty ; 
The  tangled  hours  of  this  mis-shadowed  life 
Becoming  clear  and  eloquent  as  day  ; 
The  brave  confronting  with  the  jealous  gale, 


line  238.]  BOOK  I. 

And  then  the  gliding  into  the  still  haven. 
These  read  I  here  in  all  these  many  lives, 
Woven  into  one,  like  rich  embroidery 
Upon  some  antique  hanging.     In  these  scrolls 
I  recognize  the  interpreters  of  days 
And  doings  in  which  lie  the  feeble  germs 
Of  unenfolded  being,  just  preparing 
To  start  upon  the  everlasting  race, 
Begun  down  here,  to  be  completed  yonder 
In  the  fair  realm  from  whose  blue  battlements 
The  stars  look  down  upon  us  in  their  love. 

A  mother's  love  is  ever  in  its  spring, 
It  knows  no  frost ;  with  true  Peneian  verdure 
All  over  green,  unseared  by  age  or  clime. 
A  mother's  letters,  broken  tho'  they  be, 
And  brief  perhaps,  yet,  like  the  mellow  fruit 
Of  a  perpetual  autumn,  daily  yield 
Their  unexhausted  sweetness,  and  impart 
Strength  in  the  hours  of  feebleness  and  doubt. 
A  sister's  arm,  like  a  white  silken  cord, 
Stronger  than  iron  chain,  and  like  asbestos 
Proof  against  fire,  folds  round  our  boyhood's  life, 
Infusing  tenderness,  yet  giving  strength  ; 
Smoothing  the  rough,  and  into  harmony, 
By  its  soft  touch,  as  by  a  spell  from  heaven, 
Bringing  the  youthful  discords  of  the  heart. 
A  sister's  letters,  best  of  chronicles, 
Like  faithful  sun-prints,  give  us  back  ourselves, 
Recording  the  fond  household's  history 
Of  undivided  fellowship  and  love, 


io  MY  OLD  LETTERS.  [line  268. 

Till  death  or  distance  snapped  the  holy  chain  ; — 

The  bitters  and  the  sweets,  the  heights  and  hollows, 

The  meetings  and  the  partings,  the  mishap 

Ending  in  mirth,  the  deeper  ill  in  tears  ; 

Loquacious  joy  that  cannot  hold  its  peace, 

Mute  sorrow,  yet  more  eloquent  than  joy. 

And  from  these  shreds  of  other  days  floats  up 

The  fragrance  of  the  venerable  life, 

In  midst  of  which  we  grew  to  manhood's  prime, 

Becoming  thus  what  now  we  are,  the  sons 

Of  the  past  age  and  fathers  of  the  future. 

Their  touch  has  calmness  in  it,  and  the  fire 
That  breathed  in  some  has  died  out  with  the  years  ; 
The  warmth  remains,  but  the  fierce  blaze  has  sunk ; 
And  when  the  ruffled  spirit  seeks  repose 
Or  soothing  in  the  midst  of  weary  frets, 
It  turns  to  these  ;  and  as  it  turns,  the  storm 
Smooths  into  stillness,  and  each  chafing  wave 
Obeys  the  charm.     However  far  I  go, 
These  scrolls  recall  me  to  old  love  and  rest. 
I  hear  dead  voices  saying,  Wander  not ! 
Return  !     I  cannot  but  comply  ;  I  come, — 
Won  by  the  spell  of  unforgotten  tones, 
That  still  retain  their  heart-controlling  power, 
And,  like  Ulysses,  wander  back  to  home. 

Oh  my  own  Ithaca,  my  home,  my  home  ! 
(Spake  he  not  thus,  the  wanderer  of  the  isles  ?) 
Where  the  child  rose  into  the  boy,  the  boy 
Into  the  man,  with  sunshine  all  about  him ! 
Oh  my  own  Ithaca,  my  home,  my  home ! 
Barren  it  may  be,  but  oh,  beautiful 


line  299]  BOOK  I.  ii 

Beyond  all  other  islands  of  the  wave  ! 

In  thoughts  and  dreams  I  turn  to  thee ;  but  thou 

Canst  never  be  to  me  what  once  thou  wert 

All  changed  art  thou,  and  they,  the  loved  and  loving 

Who  made  thee  what  thou  wert,  have  left  thy  shore. 

Neither  in  life  nor  death  are  we  alone  ; 
We  cannot  isolate  our  being  from 
That  of  our  fellows,  more  than  can  the  stars 
Unlace  their  mingled  radiance.     The  great  race 
Is  one,  each  age  and  clime  together  clasped, 
And  each  man,  like  each  ocean-drop,  or  more 
Or  less  affecting  all  his  fellows  round. 
In  ways  we  know  not,  and  at  points  of  which 
We  dream  not,  daily  we  on  all  are  telling. 
We  cast  a  shadow  as  we  pass  along, 
Unthinkingly,  or  give  out  silent  light, 
Dispensing  joy  or  sorrow,  ill  or  good, 
From  that  occult  and  passive  influence 
Which  man  breathes  out  on  man  unconsciously. 
The  turret-clock  in  the  great  city's  depths, 
That  strikes  the  dreaded  or  the  welcome  hour, 
Knows  not  what  bitterness  or  joy  it  brings 
With  the  resounding  stroke,  that,  like  a  knell, 
Enters  some  trembling  ear,  and  breaks  the  heart, 
Or,  like  a  flash  from  heaven,  lights  up  the  soul  ; 
Yet  none  the  less  it  does  its  certain  work. 
The  balance  knows  not  whether  lead  or  gold 
Is  laid  upon  it,  just  alike  to  all. 
The  book,  each  page  inanimate  and  mute, 
Cares  not  who  reads  it,  nor  can  understand 
The  tears  or  smiles  that  thickly  fall  upon  it, 


12  MY  OLD  LETTERS.  [line  330. 

The  peace  or  trouble  which  its  words  provoke. 

The  silent  clouds  above  us  feed  the  springs 

Which  swell  into  the  mighty  streams  on  which 

Earth's  cities  rise,  and  by  which  they  are  fed. 

We  may  be  but  the  cloud  ;  it  matters  not, 

So  be  it  that  we  fill  our  place,  and  do 

Our  work  on  earth  until  earth's  work  is  done. 

That  doing  is  no  sport  ;  done  well  or  ill, 

It  is  no  dream,  but  tells  on  all  around  ; 

And  no  man  from  his  fellow  ever  can 

Shake  himself  wholly  free  on  any  side, 

Present  or  future,  or  for  good  or  ill : 

Our  fathers  mould  us,  and  we  mould  our  sons. 

So  work  these  pages  their  unconscious  work  ; 

They  know  not  what  they  say  to  him  who  cons  them, 

Like  tree  unwitting  of  the  fruit  it  bears. 

What  are  they  doing  who  have  passed  the  bourne  ? 
They  whom  we  loved  so  well,  and  lost  long  since, — 
What  are  they  feeling  ?     Do  they  love  as  once 
They  loved  when  here  ?     We  still  are  passing  thro' 
A  life  of  tempest ;  are  they  in  the  calm  ? 
Are  the  unsettled  interests  of  time, 
That  swayed  them  to  and  fro  with  fear  and  hope, 
Absorbed  in  the  eternal  settlement  ? 
And  the  disharmonies  of  misyoked  life 
All  sweetened  into  happy  unison  ? 
Is  the  remorseless  roughness  of  the  road 
Once  trod,  when  side  by  side  we  walked  below, 
Now  sweetly  levelled  ?     Is  all  pain  unknown, 
And  heaviness  and  heartache  and  unrest  ? 
Is  darkness  now  submerged  in  tranquil  light 


line  361.]  BOOK  I.  13 

Poured  from  no  earthly  sun  ?     Are  wounds  all  healed, 
Hot  passions  soothed  to  rest,  deep  blanks  re-filled  ? 
And  disappointments  that  o'ershadowed  life 
As  with  one  dense  eclipse,  are  they  forgotten 
In  the  redeeming  sweetness  of  that  love 
Which  is  itself  the  very  heaven  of  heavens  ? 

They  have  passed  on  before,  at  height  of  day 
Outstripping  us,  yet  beckoning  us  to  come. 
Above  us  now  the  once  sense-fettered  soul 
Roams  in  the  liberty  of  ripened  being, 
Without  a  burden  and  without  a  chain. 
These  pages  tell  me  what  they  did  and  felt ; 
But  what  they  now  are,  I  must  learn  elsewhere : 
Earth's  records  are  for  earth,  and  of  the  things 
Of  earth  alone  can  telL     For  that  which  is 
Within  the  screen,  I  must  consult  with  those 
Whose  eyes  have  seen  afar,  whose  ears  have  heard 
The  songs  that  celebrate  eternal  peace. 
Dear  as  these  pages  are,  they  but  record 
A  few  faint  beatings  of  some  human  hearts 
Amid  the  fevers  and  the  frosts  of  life. 

The  history  of  suns  long  set  is  here  ; 
Pictures  of  skies  o'er  which  the  sudden  cloud 
Of  tempest  in  a  moment  rolled  ;  the  dreams 
Of  treasure-laden  barques  that  never  came  ; 
Of  stars  that  never  rose  ;  of  radiant  flowers 
That  never  blossomed  ;  of  pellucid  founts 
That  never  saw  the  sunshine,  nor  poured  forth 
Their  hidden  sparkles  to  the  kindly  morn  ; 
Of  angel  forms,  which  in  these  later  days 
(Oh,  sad  for  man  to  be  denied  such  guests !) 


14  MY  OLD  LETTERS.  [line  392. 

Have  ceased  to  visit  our  forsaken  earth. 
Here  are  the  waymarks  of  a  mistaught  mind, 
The  fitful  footprints  of  a  faltering  life  ; 
The  driftwood  flung  amid  the  rocks,  and  left 
Beyond  the  tide-line  and  the  surge,  on  this 
The  foreshore  of  th'  immeasurable  main 
That  men  and  angels  call  eternity. 

Here,  too,  I  find  mild  gleams  of  cheerful  light, 
The  episodes  of  grave  and  graceful  being, 
Of  life  in  sunshine, — voyages  across 
A  land-locked  sea,  on  which  the  scourging  wind 
Can  lay  no  hold,  o'er  which  the  luminous  sail 
Glides  with  invisible  motion,  like  the  planets 
Over  the  upper  azure,  unalarmed  ; 
The  episodes  of  wise  and  earnest  life, 
Filled  up  with  words  that  live  and  deeds  that  tell ; 
The  life  of  noble  growth,  in  which  to-day 
Is  yesterday's  apt  scholar,  and  to-morrow, 
The  docile,  pensive  pupil  of  to-day  ; 
The  meek  life,  into  which  the  scalding  words 
Of  human  passion  have  not  found  their  way, 
But  which  the  cooling  notes  of  heavenly  love 
Pervade  in  all  its  parts,  and  saturate 
The  air  with  genial  music,  till  the  peace 
Spreads  out  on  all  sides,  like  the  widening  ripple 
Of  the  still  lake,  touched  by  the  swallow's  wing. 

Strange  scraps  of  life  are  here,  like  pages  torn 
At  random  from  some  volume  of  the  past ; 
Fragments  of  being,  not  without  a  meaning. 
As  the  split  rock  shows  where  the  lightning  struck, 
As  the  torn  flag  shows  what  the  banner  was, 


line  423.]  BOOK  I.  15 

As  the  old  song  recalls  some  noble  name, 

Or  the  worn  coin  an  empire's  history  ; 

So  each  of  these  frail  symbols  links  itself 

With  man's  whole  circle,  asking  us  to  solve 

The  riddle  of  an  immortality 

Whose  twisted  coil  was  to  itself  a  chaos  ; 

For  our  own  lives  are  little  understood, 

Even  by  ourselves.     That  mazy  labyrinth 

We  call  existence  ;  that  pure  mystery 

By  us  named  soul ;  that  silent  rudder-power 

Which  we  term  will ;  that  sacred  lamp,  the  mind  ; 

That  marvellous  aurora  of  the  dark 

Which  we  style  fancy  ;  that  sweet  morning  dew 

Which  we  call  love  ; — these  in  their  several  parts 

And  acts  are  all  enigmas,  to  be  read 

By  light  not  of  this  sky,  by  subtlety 

Transcending  that  of  man's  keen  intellect ; 

And  what  we  know  not  now  we  then  shall  know, 

When  from  the  heights  of  the  eternal  hills 

We  shall  look  back  on  time,  interpreting 

Old  dreams,  unravelling  the  tangled  network 

Of  life,  and  knowing  even  as  we  are  known. 

All  after-thoughts  belong  to  man,  with  all 
The  doubts  that  hang  around  us  here  ;  to  God 
Pertains  the  eternal  forethought,  and  pure  light 
That  knows  no  shadow  of  a  shade  :  to  Him 
All  space,  all  time,  are  ever,  ever  clear ; 
Himself  the  present,  and  Himself  the  future, 
Himself  the  first  and  last,  the  ALL  IN  all. 
High  souls  are  here,  that  rose  on  mighty  wing 
Above  the  multitude  and  found  a  name, 


16  MY  OLD  LETTERS.  [line  454. 

Not  soon  to  drop  from  earth's  large  history ; 

Some  brave  in  perilous  action,  other  some 

Braver  in  perilous  endurance  ;  some 

Are  here  whose  steps  were  peace,  whose  eyes  were  light ; 

Some  with  a  chequered  sky  of  cloud  and  blue, 

Like  northern  summers,  sad  with  many  a  storm  ; 

Some  pressing  on  with  silent  earnestness, 

Calm,  yet  without  the  brilliant  glow  of  sunshine  ; 

Others,  life-weary  men,  who,  sick  at  heart, 

And  crossed  in  hope,  found  not  which  way  to  look, 

Or  into  what  safe  port  of  peace  to  turn 

From  the  cross-currents  of  a  blustering  age  ; 

Some  light  of  heart  and  free,  but  other  some 

Steeped  in  earth's  bitter  absinthe,  and  made  drunk 

With  wine  of  sorrow  ;  some  that  swept  thro'  earth 

Like  torches  thro'  the  desert  night ;  and  some 

Hidden  from  sight,  yet  from  their  secret  nooks 

Telling  like  violets  on  the  general  air ; 

Some  much  with  men,  a  few  much  with  themselves  ; 

And  others  much  with  God,  from  Him  receiving 

The  power  supernal  by  which  men  are  moved, 

The  force  divine,  which,  like  electric  fire, 

Goes  out  resistless,  tho'  unseen,  to  do 

Its  work  of  goodness  against  all  things  evil, 

Its  work  of  life  against  the  strength  of  death. 

Some  names  are  here,  on  whose  dark  tombs  I  gaze 
As  on  extinct  volcanoes,  burning  once 
With  wasting  fire  that  scorched  where'er  it  came  ; 
Who  might  have  loved,  and  healed,  and  comforted, 
But  never  loved,  nor  healed,  nor  comforted. 
Theirs  were  but  names  of  wonder,  and  no  more  : 


line  485.]  BOOK  L  17 

The  gentle  chanties  of  happy  being, 
The  wayside  flowers  of  mild  and  suasive  life, 
That  shed  their  genial  softness  thro'  the  soul, 
Grew  not  within  a  circle  such  as  theirs. 
Their  paths  of  sullen,  self-willed  wandering 
Skirted  the  blighted  heath  or  splintered  cliff; 
They  sought  the  echo  of  the  cataract, 
Or  flowerless  ruggedness  of  ocean's  strand. 
In  them  the  human  heart  seemed  ever  beating 
In  lawless  pulses  ;  swift  and  stormy  now, 
As  if  its  channels  would  give  way  ;  again, 
Too  slow  for  life,  as  if  congealed  within. 

Some  here  I  find  whose  placid  course  was  all 
A  voyage  of  pleasure  o'er  an  inland  lake, 
Studded  with  islands  and  girt  round  with  green, 
Over  whose  sunny  crystal  tempests  breathe  not  ; 
Others  whose  life,  vexed  with  time's  wasting  strife, 
Seemed  like  a  strong  sail,  riddled  with  the  shot 
Of  life -long  battle,  into  pieces  falling. — 
And  yet  I  find  that,  even  in  some  of  these, 
Defeat,  altho'  disaster,  was  not  shame. 

Ah  me  !  the  affections  of  this  life  grow  old, 
And  die  like  spring-buds  in  the  pinching  wind  ! 
Love,  even  the  deepest,  cannot  last :  at  morn, 
'Tis  fair  as  light  ;  ere  even,  exhaled  like  dew, 
Or  like  a  rainbow  buried  in  the  cloud 
From  which  it  rose,  and  upon  which  it  hung. 
The  dearest  tie  that  ever  knit  two  hearts 
(Each  like  the  other  as  two  budding  roses) 
Snaps,  and  the  loved  one  passes  out  of  sight ; 
The  brightest  eyes  are  fading,  and  their  sparkle 

B 


18  MY  OLD  LETTERS.  [line  516. 

Is  vanishing  amid  the  mortal  mist 

That  wraps  this  globe  and  darkens  earthly  homes. 

Yet,  'mid  the  ruins  of  the  human  heart, 

I  sit  me  down  and  sing  the  song  of  hope, 

The  song  of  the  rebuilding  and  the  joy. 

Most  of  earth's  history  has  passed  away, 
Like  the  spring  torrents  of  Arabian  sands, 
Which  leave  behind  no  record  of  their  flow  ; 
Yet  doubt  I  not  that  it  is  written  somewhere, 
To  be  brought  forth,  and  speak  the  buried  truth 
Contained  within  all  things  which  God  has  made, 
Or  man  has  done,  however  small  and  poor. 
Nothing  is  lost,  tho'  what  becomes  of  all 
The  light,  the  force,  the  motion  that  for  ages 
Have  flowed,  reflowed,  crossed,  and  recrossed  the  vastness 
Of  boundless  space,  we  know  not,  save  but  this, 
That  thus  the  fabric  of  the  universe 
Is  woven  into  its  endless  perfectness, 
And  wrought  into  the  stedfast  harmony 
For  which  all  things  above,  below,  are  ripening, 
Unfolding  purposes  we  understand  not. 
And  such  old  letters  are  the  seeds  of  what 
Shall  one  day,  in  new  resurrection-power, 
Arise  to  tell  of  all  that  once  has  been 
Spoken  or  done  or  felt  beneath  the  sun. 

The  story  of  this  earth  is  one  of  shipwreck, — ■ 
Of  parted  anchors  and  of  sunken  hulls, 
Torn  sails,  lost  helms,  and  buried  argosies, 
O'er  which  the  unfurrowed  sky  still  bends  unmoved, 
And  for  which  man  has  long  since  ceased  to  mourn. 
The  good  goes  down,  the  evil  floats  above  : 


line  547.]  BOOK  L  19 

Tis  not  the  face  of  ocean,  but  its  floor 

That  holds  the  gems  of  time  ;  its  precious  things 

Are  far  beyond  the  search  of  human  eye. 

Rude  Scythia  'neath  her  black  unhammered  rocks 

Buries  the  emerald  ;  the  chalcedony 

Hard  by  the  dark  Symplegades  hides  deep 

Its  yellow  splendour  ;  man  is  wandering  o'er 

A  city  of  the  dead,  some  lost  Pompeii, 

Whose  ruins  and  whose  riches  and  whose  life 

Lie  heaped  together  in  one  hopeless  tomb. 

That  Book  of  heaven,  the  gift  of  Him  whose  thoughts 
Are  only  truth,  is  but  the  epitome 
Of  one  whose  range  is  both  eternities. 
We  turn  its  leaves,  and  note  in  each  with  awe 
The  unlikeness  to  all  words  of  man, — the  abrupt 
Yet  steady  flow  throughout  the  ages  past  ; 
Its  breaks  and  links,  its  chaste  variety, 
Yet  its  mysterious  and  unstudied  oneness. 
The  symbols  that  have  marked  the  ages  past, 
And  done  true  pilot-service  to  the  world, — 
The  buds  of  truth  which  throughout  every  land 
Have  burst  and  ripened,  are  all  here  ;  and  here 
The  under-showings  of  the  coming  life, 
Of  full-developed  beauty,  are  contained. 
The  pens  of  many  lands  and  times  are  here  ; 
Yet  are  they  one  in  thought  and  theme  and  word, 
One  in  authority  of  speech  to  man, 
And  one  in  superhuman  tone  ;  most  like, 
In  unity  and  wide  immensity, 
The  tesselated  firmament  aloft, 


20  MY  OLD  LETTERS.  [line  577. 

Made  up  of  rainbows,  clouds,  and  stars  and  blue. 

Instinct  in  each  bright  line  with  subtle  force, 

Charged  with  creative  fire  from  heaven  itself, 

It  quickens  the  cold  eye  and  palsied  hand, 

Making  the  mute  lips  eloquent  that  read, 

And  purging  earthly  grossness  from  the  soul. 

The  deeds  with  which  the  world  has  sowed  its  fields 

When  earth  was  younger,  and  from  which  have  come 

Harvests  in  later  years  of  noble  goodness  ; 

By  whose  meek  influence  the  laws  and  hearts 

Of  nations  have  been  moulded,  here  are  written, 

Selected  and  arranged  by  Him  who  gave 

To  earth  its  seasons,  to  the  sea  its  tides, 

To  the  lone  river  its  melodious  rhythm, 

To  the  uplifted  hills  their  lofty  awe, 

And  to  the  universe  its  majesty  ; 

No  random  page  and  no  unmeaning  line. 

Not  upon  fiction,  but  on  truth  alone 
The  immortality  within  is  fed. 
Not  fable,  but  a  history  divine, 
Human  yet  superhuman,  everywhere 
Unearthly  but  of  earth,  and  steeped  in  love 
Higher  than  man's  or  woman's,  can  provide 
The  anodyne  of  pain,  the  quickening  food 
For  the  world's  famine,  or  replenishment 
For  the  deep  void  of  the  unsolaced  heart, 
That  yearns  in  silence  for  the  great  and  true, 
To  fill  its  vastness  and  to  cheer  its  gloom. 

That  mighty  Book  of  heaven !  what  has  it  not 
Done  for  a  careworn  world,  whose  very  smiles 
Bear  witness  to  the  void  within  ?     Its  truths 


LINE  608.]  BOOK  I.  21 

Have  sounded  thro'  the  ever-echoing  earth, 

And  filled  the  air  with  joy.     It  has  taught  men 

How  to  pluck  life  from  the  abyss  of  death  ; 

How  to  look  down  into  the  tomb,  and  see 

Not  bones  and  dust,  but  incorruption  there ; 

How  to  drink  deep  the  cup  of  bitterness, 

Yet  find  in  every  drop  immortal  health  ; 

How  to  endure  the  long  sharp  throb  of  pain, 

And  yet  give  thanks  to  Him  who  kindly  sent  it ; 

How  to  gaze  up  into  the  cheerless  heavens, 

When  the  red  bolt  is  splintering  the  rock, 

And  read  the  love  unquenchable  of  Him 

Who  out  of  midnight  brings  the  dazzling  day  ; 

How  to  peer  down  into  the  desolate  depths 

Of  ocean,  and  discover  in  that  gloom 

The  arm  that  reaches  far  below  these  depths, 

And  lifts  the  sunken  victim  from  the  wave ; 

How,  when  alone  amid  a  hostile  world, 

To  look  up  and  to  see  the  placid  sky 

Filled  with  the  weaponed  hosts  of  light,  sent  down 

To  win  for  us  the  eternal  victory. 

The   thoughts   that  have   been   torches   to  the 
world, 
Self-luminous,  like  Israel's  pillar-cloud, — 
Which  have  gone  up  and  down  the  passive  globe 
Like  angels,  and  have  found  a  resting-place 
In  every  clime,  have  issued  from  this  source ; 
The  verities  of  word  and  deed,  which  wait 
The  expansion  of  the  ages,  all  are  here. 
Tho'  undeveloped,  and  unrecognised 
By  human  unbelief,  they  yet  shall  fill 


22  MY  OLD  LETTERS.  [line  638. 

All  being,  reaching  the  remotest  parts 
Of  time  and  space,  God's  two  infinities. 

The  song  that  has  redeemed  the  commonplace 
Of  ages  or  of  schools  is  written  here, — 
The  word  that  from  the  gates  of  Paradise 
Went  forth  and  took  possession  of  earth's  altars, 
In  visible  symbol  laid  upon  the  turf, 
Type  of  the  life  for  life,  the  death  for  death, 
Is  graven  here  with  an  eternal  pen  ; 
The  seed-words  of  the  ages  all  are  here, 
Gems  dropped  from  heaven,  and  sparkling  in  the  gloom 
Or  twilight  of  this  error-shaded  earth. 

The  truths  that  from  the  tree  of  Golgotha 
Went  forth  and  took  the  world  by  storm,  like  hosts 
Mighty  in  war,  yet  without  shield  or  sword, 
Lodge  here,  as  in  some  royal  citadel, 
Ready  for  deeds  of  might  in  day  of  battle, 
Or  happy  service  in  the  hour  of  peace. 
In  slow  procession,  with  no  battle-cry 
Or  sound  of  trumpet,  calmly  march  they  forth 
From  gates  of  Old  Jerusalem,  to  overflow 
The  ages,  cover  realms,  seize  Gentile  thrones, 
Defying  the  dread  gods  of  Greece  and  Rome, 
Cumaean  or  Dodonian  oracles, 
And  subtle  strength  of  stern  philosophy, 
The  wisdom  of  the  Porch  or  the  Lycaeum. 
They  have  gone  forth  to  conquer  ;  and  they  have 
O'errun  this  populous  globe,  crossed  seas  and  straits, 
Desert  and  swamp  and  mountain,  in  their  march  ; 
Peopled  all  isles  and  continents  and  realms, 
Pervaded  cities  with  their  new-born  spell, 


line  669.]  BOOK  I.  23 

Paphos  and  Corinth,  Athens,  Ephesus. 

The  idol-fanes  they  seized,  expelled  their  gods 

(As  with  the  scourge  of  cords  the  lowly  One 

Drove  from  the  temple  of  all  temples  once 

The  merchants  and  the  merchandise  of  old), 

Leaving  to  perish,  with  a  sure  decay, 

Tripods  and  altars,  images  and  garlands. 

They  scourged  the  priesthood  out,  in  whose  dark  rites 

The  untrue  and  the  impure  of  ancient  ages 

Had  taken  refuge  and  become  incarnate, 

By  whom  gross  things  were  beautified,  to  win 

Man's  love  and  worship,  to  build  up  for  him 

A  fond  religion  of  the  fair  ideal, 

The  Syrian  goddess  or  the  Delian  god, — 

Each  statue  a  symbolic  lust,  encradled 

In  virgin  marble  or  in  bronze  enthroned  : 

The  flowers  of  the  pure  earth,  the  forest  leaves, 

The  dells,  the  mossy  caves,  and  waterfalls, 

Rocks,  rivers,  and  the  unpolluted  sea, 

The  dewy  mountains,  sky,  sun,  moon,  and  stars, 

All  linked  with  human  passion,  and  debased 

From  their  sweet  pureness,  to  become  the  haunts 

Of  fabled  deities,  whose  worshippers 

Knelt  at  the  shrine  of  gods  more  vile  than  men. 

Humanity's  uplifted  eyes  say,  Who 
And  what  is  God  ?     Where,  how  can  He  be  found  ? 
Is  He  on  earth  in  temples  made  with  hands, 
Amid  these  solemn  mountains,  or  within 
That  ocean  swaying  to  and  fro,  as  if  instinct 
With  life  beyond  itself?     Or  is  He  far 
Beyond  the  vision  of  mortality  ? 


24  MY  OLD  LETTERS.  [line  700. 

Humanity's  outstretched  hands  cry  out, 
'Show  us  the  Father,  and  it  will  suffice  !' 
'Who,  who  will  show  us  any  good  ? '  has  been 
And  still  is  everywhere  the  bitter  moan 
Of  empty,  aching  hearts,  that  feel  far  down 
The  loneliness  of  being  left  without 
One  greater  than  themselves  to  fill  the  largeness 
Of  such  a  soul  as  has  been  made  to  love, 
And  take  in  love  such  as  its  greatness  craves. 
1  Show  us  the  Father,  and  it  will  suffice  ! ' 
Is  the  sore  cry  of  human  hearts  that  came 
To  this  bright  world  for  joy,  but  found  it  not. 
That  cry  God  answers,  pointing  to  yon  babe, — - 
The  babe  of  poverty,  despised  of  man, 
That  lay  in  weakness  on  a  woman's  knee, 
And  sucked  a  woman's  breast, — to  yonder  man 
That  walked  in  sadness  this  unloving  earth, 
Doing  the  mighty  deeds  of  heavenly  grace, 
And  speaking  words  such  as  man  never  spake  ; 
That  hung  in  shame  upon  yon  cross,  and  lay 
Within  yon  stony  tomb,  then  rose  again, 
And  went  on  high  to  unbar  the  gate  of  day 
To  us,  the  wanderers  of  the  night  below. 

O  manger-cradle  !  what  to  thee  we  owe, 
Where  the  first  footsteps  of  descending  God 
Printed  themselves  on  this  unconscious  earth ! 
O  tree  of  death,  to  us  the  tree  of  life, 
Whose  fruit  is  immortality  and  joy, 
Let  us  sit  down  beneath  thy  laden  boughs 
And  pluck  thy  mellowness,  to  famished  souls 
Sweeter  by  far  than  Israel's  angel-bread. 


LINE  73i.]  BOOK  L  25 

O  rocky  tomb,  the  three  days'  prison-house 
Of  Him,  the  Mighty,  whom  no  bars  could  bind, 
Prince  of  both  life  and  death,  we  joy  to  find 
Thee  empty  now,  the  only  tomb  of  earth 
Without  a  guest,  thee  empty  evermore ! 

He  who  doubts  nothing,  nothing  knows :  so  runs 
The  proverb.     Yet  to  doubt  is  not  to  know ; 
To  know  is  not  to  doubt :  true  knowledge  is 
Deliverance  from  doubt,  and  from  the  bondage 
Which  chains  the  doubter  ;  he  who  winneth  this 
Is  nobly  blest ;  for  all  uncertainty 
Is  heaviness  of  spirit,  and  a  load 
By  far  too  grievous  to  be  borne. — A  creed 
Sent  down  from  Him  who  is  the  only  Wise 
Is  the  true  ending  of  all  human  doubt, 
The  one  foundation  of  all  certainty, 
The  end  of  mental  bondage,  the  beginning 
Of  freedom  to  the  conscience  and  the  soul. 
That  which  is  certain  can  alone  set  free  ; 
It  is  uncertainty  that  makes  us  bondsmen, 
Or  else  possession  of  a  cherished  lie, 
Clenching  the  fetters  of  the  mind  ;  truth  only, 
Not  guessed  at,  nor  half-proved,  but  coming  down 
Like  light  from  the  supernal  Light  of  light, 
Sets  free  and  makes  the  spirit  walk  erect ; 
Not  like  Enceladus,  by  Etna  crushed, 
Nor  like  Prometheus,  prisoned  on  his  rock ; 
But  like  the  buoyant  eagle,  soaring  high, 
Free  and  disburdened,  to  the  upper  heaven. 

The  birth  of  error  is  without  a  throe  ; 
The  travail-pangs  of  truth  are  terrible, 


25  MY  OLD  LETTERS.  [line  762. 

Convulsing  nations  in  their  agony. 
Evil  comes  in,  all  smiles  and  holiday, 
With  harlot-purple  decked,  and  mimic  gems, 
The  sound  of  trumpet  heralding  her  march  ; 
But  good,  amid  the  tempest  and  the  strife, 
Hard  struggling  into  life  and  hope,  its  path 
Oft  lighted  by  the  fires  of  martyrdom. 
Tis  sown  in  weakness,  it  is  raised  in  power  ; 
It  dies  to  live,  and  roots  itself  in  ashes. 

So  be  it :  out  of  sickness  cometh  health  ; 
Out  of  morn's  tempest  comes  eve's  golden  calm  ; 
The  dawn  is  the  dear  offspring  of  the  night ; 
And  like  a  mother  dying  as  she  gives 
Birth  to  a  noble  son,  so  dies  the  darkness 
As  she  brings  forth  her  fair-haired  man-child  Day. 

Let  us  be  sowers,  yet  be  reapers  too. 
In  speaking  we  are  sowers  of  the  seed, 
In  listening  we  are  reapers  of  the  harvest. 
Sow  well  and  reap  well ;  spring  and  harvest  are 
Twin  brothers,  though  all  summer  comes  between. 
He  who  knows  most  and  best  speaks  least,  and  with 
The  fewest  words  in  speaking,  but  the  fool 
Talks  golden  hours  away  ;  and  yet  a  fool 
Is  sometimes  right,  a  wise  man  sometimes  wrong. 

Let  not  the  currents  of  the  age  prevail 
To  sweep  you  from  your  stable  anchorage ; 
Seek  to  be  still,  amid  the  noise  and  heat 
Of  streets  and  crowds,  and  strife  of  angry  men, ' 
Whose  voices  arc  but  passion  and  revenge. 
'Tis  the  calm  voice  that  conquers  ;  violence 
Of  pen  or  lip  but  weakens  argument, 


line  793.]  BOOK  L  27 

Wounding  the  truth  by  its  own  advocate. 
Go,  master  thine  own  will,  be  king  within 
Thyself;  so  shalt  thou  rule  o'er  other  wills. 
Tis  not  hard  force  that  best  can  baffle  force, 
And  mock  the  blow.     See  that  fierce  thunderbolt ! 
It  strikes  the  tower,  and  the  big  stones  are  splintered  ; 
It  strikes  the  cliff,  the  rock  is  cloven  in  twain  ; 
It  strikes  the  sea,  and  sinks  in  baffled  might : 
The  soft  wave  calmly  quenches  its  quick  fire. 

Fret  not  for  news  ;  they  will  come  soon  enough 
If  ill ;  if  good,  they  can  afford  to  wait : 
Or  good  or  ill,  they  will  ere  long  grow  old, 
And  like  ripe  fruit  will  drop  into  thy  hand. 
Be  patient,  keep  your  spirit  still,  for  storms 
Are  all  about  you,  and  you  cannot  say, 
Even  to  the  lightest  of  them,  Peace,  be  still. 
The  skilful  pilot  can  control  the  barque, 
But  not  the  breeze  ;  the  rock  defies  the  gale, 
Unmoved,  but  cannot  soothe  it  into  calm. 

'  Better  to  be  the  hammer  than  the  anvil,' 
They  said  of  old.     So  said  not  He  who  came 
In  heavenly  charity  to  bear  our  griefs, 
And  to  endure  the  life-long  taunts  of  men, 
Who  hated  goodness  for  its  own  sweet  sake. 
Better  to  bear  than  to  inflict  the  wound ! 
He  who  requites  must  be  divinely  just, 
And  He  who  taketh  vengeance  must  be  love. 
Better  to  be  the  anvil  than  the  hammer. 
Fear  not  the  blow  ;  the  patient  anvil  shrinks  not, 
Nor  dreads  the  hammer  :  let  it  strike  without 
A  pause,  it  wears  or  shivers  but  itself. 


28  MY  OLD  LETTERS.  [line  824. 

Be  not  ashamed  of  truth,  however  old, 

Nor  think  the  newest  is  perforce  the  best. 

The  orchard's  aged  trees  do  often  shame 

The  new  and  young-.     I  know  it  has  been  said, 

Past  waters  turn  no  mills  ;  but  yet,  again, 

I  do  bethink  me  of  a  truer  proverb  : 

Respect  the  fountain  of  whose  waters  thou 

And  all  thy  sires  have  drunk.     Truth  never  sheds 

Its  leaves,  nor  fears  the  winter  ;  on  its  head 

No  grey  hairs  ever  come.     The  ancestry 

Of  wisdom  is  eternal  and  divine. 

Judge  truth  not  by  its  garb,  but  by  itself: 

Not  by  the  scabbard,  but  the  blade,  we  prove 

The  authentic  sword  ;  so  by  its  inward  worth 

We  rate  the  truth  ;  so  by  the  life  within, 

Shining  thro'  many  a  veil,  we  know  the  man, 

Not  by  his  dwelling  or  his  costly  robe. 

Look  not  upon  the  cup,  but  upon  that 

Which  it  contains  ;  the  cup  itself  is  nought. 

All  precious  things  are  rare,  not  to  be  bought 
As  merchandise,  bestowed  by  God  alone. 
One  in  ten  thousand  has  the  dower  of  beauty, 
And  who  can  bargain  for  that  perilous  dower  ? 
One  in  ten  thousand  has  the  gift  of  song, 
And  who  can  buy  that  lip  or  lyre  divine  ? 
Not  one  of  twice  ten  thousand  has  possessed 
The  double  heritage  of  song  and  beauty. 
God  knoweth  how  to  give  and  to  withhold : 
His  common  stars  He  scatters  o'er  the  night, 
His  brightest  gem  He  keepeth  for  the  morn. 
Rise,  orb  of  silver  !  'tis  to  thee  we  turn, 


line  855.]  BOOK  I.  29 

Stealing  in  sweetness  up  the  jewelled  blue, — 

Not  for  thyself,  but  for  the  news  thou  bringest 

Of  something  fairer  than  thyself.     Oh,  shine, 

And  lead  us  to  the  land  beyond  thyself, 

The  region  of  an  everlasting  sun  ! 

Gem  of  the  Orient,  whose  splendour  rests 

Upon  a  thousand  hills,  a  thousand  seas, 

We  hail  thee  as  the  earnest  of  the  noon  ; 

And  having  found  thee,  we  set  forth  to  seek 

The  diamond  mine  from  which  thy  brilliance  came. 

Thou,  but  a  spark  struck  from  the  chariot-wheel 

Of  dawn,  as  issuing  from  the  heavenly  gate, 

Biddest  us  look  and  wait  for  what  is  coming. 

This  is  the  age  of  stars  ;  the  age  of  suns 

Is  on  its  way  ;  we  know  that  it  will  come. 

One  voice  from  all  these  varied  pages  sounds, 
More  true  than  ancient  oracle  ere  spoke : 
Seize  the  one  moment  for  the  moment's  work, 
Or  failure  must  be  thine  !     To-morrow's  sun 
Lights  up  no  yesterdays  ;  the  broken  bridge 
Yieldeth  no  passage  to  the  traveller ; 
The  swerving  arrow  winneth  not  the  prize ; 
The  ship  that  has  so  often  come  and  gone 
Makes  its  last  voyage,  and  goes  down.     In  vain 
We  mourn  the  past,  or  strive  to  gather  up 
Lost  sunshine,  or  replace  the  vanished  rainbow. 
Lost  gold  may  be  recovered  ;  severed  love 
Be  re-cemented,  friendships  knit  again 
In  double  strength,  that  one  cold  word  had  sundered  ; 
The  straying  arrow  may  return  unblunted 
To  the  unfaithful  bow  that  played  it  false ; 


)  MY  OLD  LETTERS.  [line  SS6. 

But  the  lost  moment  perishes  for  ever, 
Like  pearl  flung  out  into  the  deep,  beyond 
The  fathom-line  or  reach  of  diver's  hand. 

This  is  the  day  of  motion  ;  history 
Fast  and  yet  faster  moveth :  but  all  motion 
Is  not  advancement.     Thought  is  now  adrift, 
And  who  shall  anchor  it  or  hold  the  helm  ? 
The  anchored  barques  are  tugging  at  their  chains, 
And  the  unanchored  are  all  out  upon 
A  sea  of  tumult,  striking  each  the  other. — 
Slow, — and  yet  slower  !  for  I  hear  afar 
The  sound  of  the  fog-signals. — Slower  yet ! 
The  air  is  thick,  and  peril  on  all  sides 
Warns  us  to  watch  and  keep  the  helm  in  hand 
The  years  are  wiser  than  the  days  ;  let  us 
Be  still  and  wait  ;  the  mist  will  rise  ere  long. 

Meanwhile  in  silence  the  recumbent  earth 
Moves  on,  unconscious  of  the  hurricane, 
Round  its  old  self,  and  round  the  constant  sun, 
Impelled  by  laws  it  knows  not,  yet  obeys. 
So  let  us  glide  upon  our  tranquil  path, 
Unswerving,  with  our  eye  upon  the  goal, 
And  in  obedience  to  a  law  which  sweetly 
Draweth  us  onward,  yet  in  doing  so 
Keeps  us  unshaken, — says  to  us,  Be  still ! 

I  look  with  awe  upon  the  stedfast  past, 
So  unrecallable  and  motionless, 
And  yet  so  full  of  all  that  once  was  life, 
And  warmth,  and  motion  ;  like  an  iceberg  vast, 
Its  million  drops  all  frozen  into  one  ; 
Or  like  a  mighty  continent,  filled  up 


LINE  917.]  BOOK  L  31 

With  the  debris  of  ages,  there  it  lies 

Behind  me  in  its  greatness  ;  and  as  I 

"Move  on  and  on,  it  closes  quick  behind, 

And  shuts  its  gates  against  me  ;  yet  I  feel 

Its  awful  shadow  cast  upon  my  present 

As  I  stretch  out  my  hand  to  touch  it,  all 

Is  cold  and  unresponsive,  yet  I  can 

Pluck  from  its  silent  wastes  the  withered  flowers 

Of  days  that  have  stolen  past  in  soundless  haste  ; 

And  I  can  gaze  upon  its  dim  low  hills, 

Beyond  revisiting,  left  far  behind. 

The  future  cometh,  rolling  in  its  waves 
With  all  their  burdens,  eager  to  land  its  freight 
On  the  firm  shore,  and  to  become  the  past. 
I  see  it  coming,  billow  upon  billow. 
And  what  these  far-off  crests  convey  to  us, 
Of  evil  or  of  good,  I  know  not ;  soon 
They  will  roll  in  upon  the  welcome  strand, 
And  all  that  heaving  future,  with  its  warmth 
And  change  and  waywardness,  lie  still  and  cold. 

The  fire  that  purifies  the  gold  must  first 
Dissolve  the  ore  ;  the  soil  that  vivifies 
The  seed  must  first  become  its  tomb  ;  each  part 
And  atom  of  this  globe  is  passing  thro' 
The  potter's  hands,  and  will  ere  long  give  up 
The  secrets  of  its  being,  the  great  thoughts 
With  which  creation  travails,  bringing  forth 
The  eternal  perfect  from  the  imperfect  past. 
Linked  with  the  changes  which  make  up  the  days 
Of  that  which  we  call  time,  each  fragment  has 
A  marvellous  story  of  itself  to  tell : 


32  MY  OLD  LETTERS.  [line  948. 

Child  of  the  ages  past,  it  says,  am  I, 
For  out  of  all  of  them  have  I  come  forth  ; 
Part  of  them  all  am  I  ;  their  history- 
Is  mine,  and  mine  is  theirs  ;  their  spirit  rests 
Upon  me,  and  hath  made  me  what  I  am. 
Child  of  the  ages  yet  to  come  am  I, 
They  are  my  heritage  ;  to-morrow's  sun 
May  or  may  not  arise  upon  me  here, 
But  somewhere  and  somehow  I  know  to-morrow 
Will  yet  be  mine,  as  yesterday  hath  been. 

We  know  no  rapture  here  without  its  chill  ; 
No  song  but  dies  and  leaves  the  asking  ear 
Unsatisfied  ;  no  day  without  its  fall  ; 
The  lustre  of  the  undiluted  light, 
Meek  and  unchangeable,  is  only  known 
In  the  far  region  of  unwrinkled  skies. 
For  life  and  death  are  woven  into  each  other : 
The  day  of  the  untwining  comes  apace  ; 
We  know  it,  and  lift  up  our  head  in  joy. 

Faith  walks  in  night,  yet  is  not  of  the  night ; 
And  Hope,  her  fellow,  looks  into  the  east, 
Where,  marking  the  long  cloud-bars  all  of  gold, 
It  says,  ere  day  is  up,  Behold  the  sun ! 


BOOK     II. 


'  At  noon,  when  day  was  all  awake,  and  light, 
Mother  of  day,  had  breathed  her  ample  life 
O'er  the  dead  face  of  earth,  I  sat  amid 
The  monoliths  of  old  Phoenicia's  shrine, 
On  sunny  Malta's  sea-embosomed  rock, 
And  thought  of  ancient  altars,  broken  gods  ' 
(So  read  I  here  in  this  old  page  of  friendship). 

1  Once,  too,  at  eve,  ere  twilight  had  come  down, 
When  the  ripe  sunshine  dropped  o'er  land  and  sea, 
Like  yellow  fruit  in  autumn,  I  went  out 
Amid  the  pillared  groups  of  marble  ruin 
Strewed  o'er  Italia's  western  shores,  that  seem 
Like  lonely  graveyards  of  its  buried  gods. 
My  musings  went  to  ages  past ;  of  all 
That  these  bleached  fragments  once  had  seen,  I  thought. 

1  And  then  again,  at  the  mute  hour  of  midnight, 
When  ocean  lay  at  rest  in  sleep  and  smiles, 
And  the  moon  woke,  to  watch  the  bright  repose, 
Scattering  its  silver  o'er  the  wave  like  dreams, 
I  stood  on  Sidon's  crumbling  fort,  and  looked 
All  round  and  up  the  slopes  of  Lebanon, 
Where  to  Astarte  rose  the  tainted  incense, 
And  Syria  knelt  before  her  goddess-moon. 


34  MY  OLD  LETTERS.  [line  24. 

'  The  temples  of  earth's  younger  days  have  fallen  ; 
The  idol-plain  of  Shinar  is  a  waste  ; 
The  colonnades  of  Baalbec,  that  for  ages 
Like  a  palm-forest  stood,  uprooted  lie  ; 
The  columns  whitening  the  green  hills  of  Greece 
Have  crumbled  ;  perished  Rome's  four  hundred  fanes  : 
The  sea  of  ages  has  swept  over  them  ; 
Beneath  its  waves  dead  gods  and  goddesses 
Lie  deep  entombed, — no  one  to  quicken  them, 
Or  to  relight  their  long-quenched  altar-fires. 

1  And  yet  I  hear  of  pilgrims  in  these  days, 
These  wiser  days  of  spirit  and  of  truth, 
Who  do  them  reverence ;  who  go  to  kneel, 
And  weep,  and  love,  and  worship,  waking  up 
With  pagan  litanies  the  aged  silence, 
Pining  for  deities  long  since  extinct, 
In  which,  impersonate,  they  seem  to  see 
What  man  calls  nature,  and  to  which  he  kneels, 
Clasping  the  idol  in  his  wild  embrace 
As  if  it  were  the  real,  or  than  the  real 
More  lovable  and  worthy  of  his  faith  ; 
As  if  in  that  ideal  he  had  found 
The  very  spirit  of  this  marvellous  seen, 
And  yet  more  marvellous  unseen,  to  which, 
Fondly  enamoured,  he  would  wed  his  soul  ; 
To  which,  enraptured,  he  would  bow  the  knee, 
As  to  a  goddess-bride,  in  whose  warm  eyes 
He  would  rejoice  to  find  his  dreamy  heaven. 

'  O  youth-hood  of  the  world,  earth's  May-day  prime, 
To  which  so  many  wistful  eyes  look  back, 
How  little  of  the  pure  and  lovable 


line  55.]  BOOK  II.  35 

Perfumes  your  ancient  air,  or  finds  its  way 

Into  the  sunshine  of  your  burning  blue  ! 

What  have  your  molten  or  your  chiselled  myths 

Done  for  the  realms  who  owned  them  as  their  creed  ? 

How  little  of  the  noble  or  the  great 

Has  dwelt  within  the  columns  of  your  fanes, 

Or  blazed  upon  your  altars  !     War  and  wine 

Were  there,  with  lewdness  and  with  cruelty ; 

Each  symbol  pander  to  a  lust,  or  based 

Upon  a  lie,  or  some  contorted  fragment 

Of  truth  primeval,  all  defaced  and  worn. 

Fierce  and  lascivious  were  the  fumes  which  filled 

The  chambers  of  your  vast  unwindowed  shrines  ; 

Your  marble,  Parian  or  Pentelican, 

Blushed  at  the  rites  it  witnessed  ;  and  your  men, 

Oft  nobler  than  the  creeds  they  clung  to,  looked 

With  scorn  on  wanton  deities,  who  seemed 

To  visit  earth  but  to  defile  its  pureness 

With  lewdness  of  their  own  voluptuous  heavens. 

'O  era  of  the  gods  !  ere  Bel  had  bowed, 
And  Nebo  gone  into  captivity  ; 
When  Egypt  worshipped  still  her  nameless  Power  ; 
Ere  yet  Ibsambul  was  laid  desolate, 
Her  idols  smothered  in  the  Nubian  sands, 
And  her  rock-chiselled  niches  stripped  and  spoiled  ; 
Ere  Elam's  ever-burning  fire  went  out, 
Or  Lebanon  forgot  her  Ashtaroth, 
Or  Zeus  and  Here,  from  the  Olympian  peaks, 
Had  passed  into  their  kindred  nothingness : 
Era  of  myth  and  mystery,  how  blank 
For  truth  and  goodness  have  your  ages  been  ! 


36  MY  OLD  LETTERS.  [line  86. 

Ye  fabled  deities,  what  have  you  done 

To  sweeten  or  dry  up  the  turbid  flood 

Of  terrene  ill  ?     Ah  !  never  have  ye  gone 

Down  to  the  solemn  depths  of  human  conscience, 

To  calm  the  tempest  that  was  raging  there  ; 

No  burdens  have  ye  borne,  no  wrinkles  smoothed 

Upon  the  furrowed  front  of  earthly  care  ; 

Dumb  as  your  statues,  and  as  cold,  no  words 

To  the  lone  mourner  have  ye  ever  spoken, 

No  counsels  to  the  wandering  have  ye  given, 

No  guidance  to  the  error-tangled  step, 

No  blanks  ye  filled,  no  terrors  ye  allayed  ; 

Upon  the  future  ye  could  shed  no  hope ; 

Upon  no  deathbed  did  ye  ever  shine, 

Making  the  leaden  lip  to  smile  with  peace, 

And  lighting  up  with  love  the  heavy  eye. 

Rest  for  the  weary  ye  had  none  ;  no  love, 

Like  that  of  Him  who  gave  His  Son  for  us, 

Ere  spake  from  you  by  priest  or  oracle  ; 

No  cradle-lullaby  ye  ever  sang, 

No  mother's  tears  ye  dried  ;  ye  could  not  say 

To  your  own  Niobe  in  day  of  grief, 

"  Refrain  thy  voice  from  weeping,  and  thine  eyes 

From  tears,  for  soon  thy  children  shall  return  ;  " 

Ye  could  but  change  her  into  stone  !     No  hope  ye  gave 

Of  happy  meeting  and  immortal  love 

On  a  bright  shore  of  life,  to  which  no  death 

Shall  come,  and  o'er  whose  field  of  peaceful  light 

No  star  malignant  shall  shoot  down  its  ray. 

No  earnest  gave  ye  of  a  glorious  future 

For  man  and  for  man's  earth,  long  desolate, 


line  1 1 7.]  BOOK  II.  37 

Compensating  for  disappointment  here. 

Poor  helpless  gods,  what  have  ye  done  for  men, 

Even  in  these  days  when  all  the  world  was  yours, 

Days  of  humanity's  unwasted  prime  ? 

What  stamp  of  love  or  pureness  have  ye  left 

Upon  that  earth  o'er  which  so  long  ye  swayed  ? 

When  did  ye  dare  the  battle-front  for  truth, 

Or  face  the  flame  in  fighting  error  down  ? 

Has  the  grave  yielded  to  your  icy  touch, 

Or  death  fled  trembling  from  your  sightless  eyes  ? 

Which  of  you  all  has  spoken  words  that  live, 

Or  done  the  deeds  that  tell,  or  moulded  minds 

Into  celestial  beauty,  lifting  man 

Above  the  sensual  thought  and  selfish  will  ? ' 

So  writes  the  meditative  pen  of  one 
Whose  pleasant  fellowship  has  passed  away. 
His  youth  to  many  seemed  made  up  of  dreams ; 
To  those  who  knew  him  'twas  one  burning  thought, 
One  passionate  purpose,  so  to  live  this  life 
That  earth  should  be  the  better  for  his  birth, 
And  own  him  as  a  son  she  loved  to  honour. 

It  was  a  noble  dream  ;  and  he  who  dreamed  it 
Woke  up  to  noble  life,  and  lived  it  well. 
He  said, — nor  did  he  speak  amiss  to  us, — 
1  Think  of  what  one  day  thou  shalt  be,  and  try 
To  be  to-day  what  thou  shalt  one  day  be. 
Fight  on  and  conquer ;  be  a  power  on  earth 
Long  after  thou  art  gone  ;  live  for  all  ages. 
Live  wisdom,  and  then  speak  it ;  it  will  tell : 
The  wise  words  of  the  wisest  sometimes  seem 
But  folly  to  the  foolish.     Not  the  less 


38  MY  OLD  LETTERS.         [line  148. 

They  work  their  destined  work  invincibly  ; 

Then  most  a  power  when  man  esteems  them  weakness. 

The  fragrant  oil-drops  from  the  wrestler's  hair, 

When  gathered  Greece  had  crowned  him  conqueror, 

Fell  not  in  vain,  but  left  the  odour  long, 

Breathing  a  power  upon  the  multitude 

That  quickened  them  to  deeds  of  worth  and  greatness. 

He  whose  good  name  is  lost,  is  dead  and  buried ; 

But  he  whose  life,  however  brief,  hath  spoken, 

Tho'  but  the  lowest,  least  articulate  tones 

Of  blessing  to  his  fellows,  never  dies. 

'  How  strong  the  ties  of  kindred  and  long  love, 
How  dear  the  intercourse  of  heart  with  heart ; 
Sunny  or  sorrowful,  as  each  sweet  day 
Draws  out  still  more  of  that  which  is  within ! 
Man  wishes  to  be  loved, — expects  to  be  so  ; 
And  yet  how  few  live  so  as  to  be  loved  ! 
Each  to  the  other  says,  "  Come,  love  me,"  yet 
Who  among  thousands  lives  the  lovable, 
Heart-winning  life  ?     'Tis  love  that  winneth  love  : 
Words  are  too  often  mockers  ;  gentle  deeds 
Knit  souls  together,  fusing  into  one 
Divided  thoughts  and  hopes,  and  fears  and  joys. 
He  that  would  win  me  must  himself  be  won  : 
I  know  no  loving  save  by  being  loved  ; 
For  being  loved,  we  love.     Such  is  the  law 
Alike  of  earth  and  heaven  ;  for  Him  we  love 
Who  loved  us  first ;  His  love  engenders  ours. 

1  Be  sure  your  shaft  is  fixed  before  you  draw 
The  bow  ;  then  draw,  and  stint  not ;  take  thine  aim. 
Live  thou  no  random  life,  as  if  to  play 


line  179.]  BOOK  II.  39 

Some  time-beguiling  game  thou  earnest  here, 
Or  take  thy  part  in  the  world's  brilliant  dance, 
And  then  depart  when  the  bright  crowd  breaks  up, 
The  music  quenched  and  the  gay  waltzers  gone.' 

I  read  and  muse,  I  muse  and  read  again, 
Conversing  with  the  dear  or  honoured  dead. 
These  letters  are  the  voices  of  the  loved  ; 
And  thus  may  life  and  death  hold  intercourse, 
Tho'  not  by  eye  or  ear  or  touch,  or  some 
Ethereal  medium,  which  man  may  not  name 
Except  in  darkness.     For  to  us  they  come  not  ; 
We  go  to  them  :  we  meet  them  where  we  oft 
Have  met  before  ;  we  go  into  the  past, 
To  walk  and  sit  beside  them  as  of  old. 
What  they  are  now  is  hidden  from  our  eye  ; 
What  they  once  were  we  know,  and  into  that 
We  would  each  day  return,  and  wander  through 
The  fields  where  we  so  oft  have  been  with  them, 
On  double  wing  of  memory  and  love, 
Rejoining  those  whose  lives  and  ours  were  once 
But  one,  and  whose  departure  took  away 
Part  of  ourselves,  and  left  yet  more  of  them 
Behind,  deep-treasured,  for  companionship, 
Hour  ofter  hour,  to  us  in  silent  days 
Of  blankness  and  of  solitude,  till  this 
Strong  memory  shall  lose  its  strength  to  name 
The  names  of  love,  or  until  we  rejoin 
Those  who  have  thus  outrun  us  in  the  race 
Of  time,  and  reached,  long  before  us,  the  goal. 

Out  of  the  eater  has  come  forth  the  meat, 


40  MY  OLD  LETTERS.         [line  209. 

And  from  the  strong  one  sweetness  ;  so  to  me 
Has  the  devourcr  of  all  mundane  things, 
The  greatnesses  and  meannesses  of  man, 
Left  those  few  shreds  behind  him,  as  he  swept 
Still  on  and  on  in  his  destructive  march, 
Locked  up  in  double  safe,  like  hoarded  gold, 
These  treasured  pages  of  the  loved  and  lost, 
These  self-sketched  portraits  of  their  inner  being, 
Fragments  of  once  familiar  history. 

In  the  great  picture-gallery  of  Time, 
Each  child  of  earth,  tho'  all  unchronicled, 
And  unrelated  to  the  wise  or  high, 
Has  some  fond  niche  or  shaded  corner,  where 
He  finds  some  image,  which  no  time  can  blot, 
Of  those  who  have  gone  from  him,  and  whose  going 
Left  his  poor  dwelling  poorer,  and  himself 
A  lonelier  man,  whose  props  and  fellowships, 
Once  fallen  to  pieces,  could  not  be  replaced. 
For  few  are  the  replacements  of  the  heart ; 
That  which  is  gone  is  gone,  and  no  one  else 
Can  fit  into  the  hollow  death  has  made, 
Or  fill  up  the  unmeasured  blank  within. 

Quickly  the  lacerated  air  is  healed, 
The  bolt  that  pierced  it  left  no  scar  behind. 
Heart-wounds  are  only  cicatrized  to  many  ; 
The  life-long  scar  shows  where  the  arrow  struck, 
The  life-long  pain  betrays  the  hidden  hurt. 
Quickly  the  sea  fills  up  the  hollow  where 
The  barque  went  down,  and  all  again  is  smooth  ; 
But  in  that  greater  sea,  the  human  heart, 
Shipwreck  is  shipwreck  beyond  hope  or  fear ; 


line  240.]  BOOK  II  41 

The  old  fulness  comes  not,  and  can  never  come. 

Swiftly  the  sky  of  noon  resumes  its  joy 

When  storms  exhaust  themselves,  and  clouds  have  passed; 

But  that  far  wider  heaven,  man's  boundless  soul, 

Detains  the  shadow  when  the  cloud  has  fled  ; 

And  in  the  human  hemisphere,  the  star 

Once  lost  is  lost  for  ever,  till  the  hour 

Of  glad  recovery  for  all  true  things  lost, 

When  every  stain  shall  vanish  from  the  blue 

Of  our  fair  life  hereafter,  and  the  lights, 

Which  went  out  from  our  firmament,  shall  be 

Rekindled  there  in  freshness  far  beyond 

What  eye  hath  seen  in  this  thick  air  of  time. 

The  scar  remains  ;  the  pain,  with  most,  is  past ; 
Few  suffer  long  ;  the  many  fling  aside 
Their  sharpest  grief ;  within  a  few  short  months, 
Or  less,  the  past  is  past,  the  sea  is  still. — 
Oh,  well  for  them,  and  yet  not  well !     I'd  rather 
Endure  the  open  wound  a  lifetime,  than 
Part  with  the  memories  of  these  earnest  days, 
WThen  I  sat  face  to  face  with  death,  and  then 
Kissed  the  last  farewell,  clasped  the  marble  fingers, 
And  saw  the  soul  forsake  beloved  eyes. 

On  such  departed  radiances  I  muse, 
Still  beautiful  in  their  primeval  youth  ; 
And  musing,  take  up  one  by  one  these  pages, — 
Soiled  with  long  years,  and  torn  by  heedless  hands, — 
In  which  old  life  comes  back  again,  like  corn 
Spilled  from  the  shaken  sheaf  upon  the  ground, 
Or  like  the  scatterings  of  storied  glass, 
From  dim  church  window,  falling  to  decay. 


42  MY  OLD  LETTERS.         [line  271. 

Brief  episodes  of  home  and  love  and  peace, 

With  glimpses  of  the  unforgotten  scenes, 

Faces,  and  names  of  boyhood,  all  are  here : 

The  quiet,  or  the  boisterous  overflow 

Of  hearts  as  yet  untamed  to  manhood's  rules, 

The  first  up-wellings  of  youth's  sparkling  spring, 

The  wild  exuberance  of  the  vagrant  will 

When  first  let  loose  upon  a  world  of  smiles, 

Are  written,  tho'  in  broken  characters, 

By  pens  long  since  laid  down.     Strange  pages  these, 

O'er  which  my  eye  runs  swiftly,  as  I  watch 

These  sinking  stars  and  this  uprising  sun, 

That  thro'  my  lattice  now  begins  to  pour 

Its  brilliance  in  this  solemn  summer  dawn. 

Heaped  on  this  table,  in  disorder  mute, — • 
Type  of  the  ravelled  coil  of  memories 
Within  myself, — a  lifetime's  memories, — 
They  lie,  and  bid  me  listen  to  their  song. 

And  I  am  listening  !     Not  a  sound  but  has 
Its  charms,  which  distance  has  no  power  to  dull; 
For  time  but  breathes  its  harmonizing  spell 
O'er  what  was  once  untunable  and  harsh, 
Transforming  into  venerable  softness 
Words  which,  when  uttered  first,  perchance  were  rude  ; 
Making  even  silence  eloquent ;  the  sweet 
Still  sweetening  ;  the  waves  of  stormy  life 
Smoothing  into  a  stable  calm,  o'er  which 
No  hurricane  again  shall  ever  break. 

They  say  that  when  the  Alpine  peak  is  split 
By  frost  or  lightning,  or  by  grinding  time, 
The  gems  roll  out  into  the  vales  below, 


line  302.]  BOOK  II  43 

Making  the  peasant  rich  with  unbought  treasure  : 
Even  so  life's  once  deep-buried  memories 
Uncover  all  their  lustre  to  the  soul, 
Making  me  richer  than  I  thought  or  dreamed, 
When  time  or  storm  or  the  sharp  frosts  of  life 
Have  severed  them  from  the  encrusting  mass 
Of  present  scenes  and  soul-absorbing  cares, 
Which  buried  them  in  darkness  far  within. 
Before  me  passes,  disarranged  yet  clear, 
The  vision  of  man's  threescore  years  and  ten  ; 
Each  day  containing  in  itself  a  tale 
Told  for  all  age:;,  and  each  week  a  volume  ; 
All  of  them  fragments,  broken  off  by  time 
From  this  immortal  being,  and  laid  up 
As  in  a  treasure-house,  or  skilfully 
Embalmed,  like  Egypt's  dead,  with  spices  sweet ; 
Not  lost,  like  vapour  vanishing  in  air, 
Or  inurned  ashes  of  a  Roman  pyre  ; 
Not  flung  aside  as  waste,  but  linked  with  noons 
And  nights  of  our  imperishable  past, — 
Parts  of  one  being,  zones  of  one  round  earth, 
Fields  of  one  province,  yet  in  light  and  shade 
Each  differing  from  the  other,  none  the  same  ; 
For  true  life  ever  varies  and  is  fresh ; 
'Tis  fancy  only  that  repeats  itself, 
Still  giving  forth  a  stale  monotony 
Of  human  fictions,  substituted  for 
Divine  creations  ever  rich  and  new ; 
Some  like  plucked  flowers,  whose  fragrance  lingers  yet 
When  the  full  hues  are  gone  ;  some  like  the  flowers 
Whose  beauty  lingers  when  the  fragrance  dies. 


44  MY  OLD  LETTERS.         [line  333. 

As  at  the  keyboard  sits  the  organist, 

And,  touching  key  by  key,  draws  out  the  store 

Of  melody  within,  or  old  or  new, 

Till  from  the  organ-pipes  the  massive  notes 

Roll  out  like  living  gems,  so  sit  I  here  ; 

And  as  I  touch  these  fragile  finger-keys, 

These  scrolls  in  which  a  parent  or  a  friend, 

Brother  or  sister,  spoke  out  all  their  heart, 

The  unexhausted  music  of  the  past 

Comes  out,  and  fills  the  ever-listening  soul 

With  solemn  sweetnesses  that  never  pall. 

Into  these  byways  of  the  sombre  past 
We  track  our  way  with  charts  and  guides  like  those 
Which  these  old  letters  furnish,  and  sit  down 
Amid  the  crumbling  towers,  the  grass-paved  streets, 
The  shattered  obelisks  of  life,  once  fresh 
In  its  own  radiant  prime,  as  one  who  walks 
Amid  the  rock-shrines  of  old  Thebes,  or  gazes 
On  Syria's  pillared  wrecks,  or  corridors 
Of  proud  Sebuste  on  her  hill  of  vines  ; 
Or  yet  more  truly,  as  one  strolling  out 
Along  the  Appian  Way,  and  wandering  on, 
Finds  on  each  side,  half-buried  and  half-razed, 
The  villa  and  the  tomb  of  Roman  days. 

Amid  the  thickets  of  the  past  we  seem 
At  times  to  lose  ourselves,  yet  there  we  love, 
As  we  grow  older,  oftener  still  to  be 
Than  in  the  present ;  for  to  haunts  like  these 
The  famished  soul  goes  back  for  nourishment 
And  comfort  in  its  day  of  weariness. 
The  then  and  now,  how  different !     And  we, 


line  364.]  BOOK  II.  45 

Unlike  our  former  selves  in  taste  and  feeling ! 

Then,  it  was  with  the  living  all  the  day 

We  lived ;  thoughts,  hopes,  and  dreams  were  all  with 

them. 
Youth  looked  at  everything  with  summer  eyes, 
And  then  it  seemed  that  not  a  leaf  could  curl, 
Or  blossom  drop  upon  the  greedy  soil. 
Few  memories  had  we,  and  they  were  sweet  ; 
Our  past  was  brief,  our  future  great  and  fair. 
Now,  with  the  dead  it  is  we  converse  hold  ; 
Our  fellowships  are  on  the  other  side 
Of  the  lone  grave,  in  which  so  many  loves 
And  joys  lie  buried  deep.     Life  seems  to  us 
Like  an  old  city  now,  with  shattered  walls, 
And  broken  gateways,  'neath  whose  arches  once 
Youth  marched  in  glee,  with  its  gay  banners  spread, 
To  each  day's  goal  of  triumph  and  of  song. 
O  bright  processions  of  the  past !     No  time 
Can  blot  you  from  our  memories !     O  mirth 
Of  boyhood,  when  the  slippery  mountain-slope, 
Hot  with  all  July  flaming  on  its  rocks, 
Or  shaggy  with  September's  brownest  fern, 
Welcomed  our  buoyant  steps,  as  up  we  climbed 
Cliff  above  cliff;  or  when  the  lavish  sun 
Shook  down  its  autumn  gold  upon  the  sea, 
Along  whose  glowing  lip  we  roamed  in  joy. 

The  one-book  student  is  not  always  wise, 
The  untravelled  spirit  is  not  often  wide  ; 
The  reader  of  the  false  becomes  himself 
False  as  the  books  he  reads.     Light  cometh  not 
To  him  who  loves  the  dark.     Let  us  spread  out 


46  MY  OLD  LETTERS.         [line  394. 

Our  souls  among  the  many  and  the  true, 

Or  books  or  lives,  that  we  may  be  as  they, 

In  life  and  thought  alike  large-souled  and  wise  ; 

Not  cast  in  one  stiff  mould,  but  wide  and  free  ; 

Wide  as  the  widest  truth,  and  free  as  day 

In  the  pure  stretch  of  its  unmeasured  sunshine, 

Owning  no  bound  save  that  which  God  has  set. 

Our  vision's  limit  should  be,  not  the  clouds 

Of  earth,  but  the  wide  heaven,  or  wider  still. 

The  circle  of  immeasurable  space, 

Into  whose  calmness  of  unfathomed  distance 

Some  trembling  star,,  all  but  invisible 

In  the  far  offing,  beckons  our  slow  eyes. 

Whence  the  truth  comes,  or  how,  we  need  not  care  : 

Be  it  but  truth,  'tis  welcome.     What  lips  spoke, 

What  fingers  penned  it,  heed  not.     Is  it  true  ? 

Let  it  come  in,  then,  and  abide  with  us. 

Blessed  the  roof  that  kindly  gives  it  shelter  ! 

Ask  not  the  good  man's  pedigree  ;  he  may 

Be  without  name  or  title,  poor  in  all 

That  the  proud  world  calls  noble  in  descent, 

Yet  may  his  ancestry  and  heritage 

Be  old  and  heavenly.     Take  him  for  what  he  is, 

Think  not  of  what  he  is  not  ;  it  may  be 

Thou  shalt  receive  an  an^el  unawares. 

It  is  the  tiller  of  the  ground  that  keeps 
The  world  in  life,  and  makes  it  what  it  is. 
Poor  as  he  may  be,  from  his  daily  sweat 
The  wealth  of  nations  springs,  and  his  rough  hands 
Wield  sceptres,  steer  our  navies,  and  command 
Our  armies,  sign  our  treaties,  make  our  laws, 


line  425.]  BOOK  II  47 

Sheathe  or  unsheathe  the  sword,  to  overthrow 

Or  reconstruct  the  empires  of  the  earth. 

And  yet  who  thinks  of  him,  or  knows  his  name, 

Or  asks  his  pedigree  ?     The  hard  and  sore 

But  useful  work  that  tells  upon  the  world 

Is  done  by  unknown  men,  who  find  no  fame, 

Yet  without  whom  the  men  of  name  and  honour 

That  fill  the  untrue  annals  of  our  race 

Would  all  have  lived  in  vain.     The  great  ones  die. 

And  the  wide  nations  weep  ;  fair  monuments 

Arise  in  every  city.     Those  obscure, 

Hard-toiling  men,  whose  eyes  grew  early  dim, 

Die  and  are  buried  where  their  fathers  lie  ; 

The  crowd  moves  on  above  them,  and  the  world, 

Noisy  and  ignorant,  and  mad  with  lust 

Of  gold,  knows  not  how  poor  it  has  become. 

No  one  has  seen  to-morrow,  and  from  it 
No  lessons  come.     It  may  be  full  of  wisdom, 
Yet,  till  it  comes,  the  wisdom  cannot  come. 
All  have  seen  yesterday,  and  out  of  it 
And  its  long  fellow-yesterdays  which  we 
Have  known,  the  lofty  light  and  knowledge  rise. 
Say  what  men  will,  antiquity  is  power ; 
The  light  of  long-set  suns  is  gleaming  still 
Upon  the  furrows  of  its  awful  peaks. 
Call  it  the  youth  of  time,  as  some  have  done, 
Yet  they  who  dwelt  in  it  were  men  of  thought 
As  well  as  we,  and  men  of  mellow  minds, 
Who  had  outgrown  their  nonage,  and  could  speak 
As  only  they  can  do  whom  time  has  taught. 

The  pyramids  are  Egypt's,  but  to  all 


43  MY  OLD  LETTERS.         [line  456. 

The  world  belong  the  everlasting  hills. 

Children  of  time  are  we  ;  its  stores  are  ours, 

The  centuries  are  ours  which  have  flowed  out, 

Drop  after  drop,  since  man  was  on  the  earth. 

Both  good  and  ill,  both  true  and  false  are  there, 

Yet  are  they  not  like  drops  which  in  an  hour 

Exhale  and  leave  no  vestige  of  their  being, 

But  rather  like  the  stars,  which  one  by  one 

Come  forth  and  shine  for  ever,  or  with  good 

Or  evil  influence  on  each  following  age  ; 

Or  like  the  deep-stored  mines,  whose  precious  ore 

Has  been  depositing  itself  for  ages, 

To  be  the  unexhausted  wealth  of  kingdoms. 

Ours  must  it  be  to  treasure  up  the  gold 

And  fling  the  dross  away  ;  to  separate 

The  shadow  from  the  substance,  and  to  dig 

In  every  mine  of  the  long-buried  past  ; 

To  glean  with  eager  and  impartial  hand 

In  every  field  where  truth  has  found  a  home. 

He  who  is  bound  to  learn  is  bound  to  teach, 

The  Jewish  fathers  said  ;  and  it  is  well. 

Let  us,  then,  daily  learn,  that  we  may  teach; 

And  let  us  daily  teach,  that  we  may  learn. 

Yet  'tis  but  little  of  earth's  history 
That  bears  recording  ;  greater  part  by  far 
Fit  for  oblivion  :  for  one  flowery  nook, 
Miles  of  rank  weeds  ;  for  one  shining  gem, 
Long  fields  of  dross.     I  look  behind,  and  see 
The  dark  deposits  of  the  centuries, 
The  strata  of  the  ages,  as  they  flowed 
And  ebbed,  precipitating,  deep  and  foul, 


line  487.]  BOOK  II.  49 

Layer  upon  layer  of  human  sin,  spread  out 
In  loathsome  crust  upon  this  passive  earth. 

Fountain  of  light !  this  confused  world  of  ours 
Is  full  of  mist  and  peril  everywhere  ; 
Wilt  Thou  not  send  the  light  for  which  it  sighs  ? 
Radiance  we  ask  beyond  what  man  can  give, 
To  turn  our  winter  into  spring  and  flowers. 
Sunshine  with  all  its  splendour  cannot  loose 
The  bonds  of  frost :  even  so  philosophy, 
Highest  and  purest,  shines,  but  shines  in  vain  ; 
It  melts  not,  heals  not,  filleth  up  no  void, 
Xor  breaks  the  iron  chain,  nor  purges  evil, 
Xor  makes  the  human  spirit  free  and  holy, 
Possessor  of  a  winged  hope  that  goes 
Above  the  peaks  of  these  ambitious  hills, 
Beyond  the  sparkle  of  these  lofty  stars. 

The  sun  is  silent :  it  gives  deeds  not  words 
For  blessing  ;  and  no  voice  of  eloquence 
Or  song  comes  from  it ;  day  by  day  it  pours 
Its  mute  vitality  o'er  earth  ;  and  yet 
That  soundless  sunbeam,  in  its  gentleness, 
Is  the  great  power  for  motion  and  for  life, 
The  strength  of  strength,  resistless  in  its  stillness  ; 
Type  of  omnipotence,  which  silently 
Rules   heaven  and    earth.      From   that   calm    orb 

above 
Comes  down  the  fruitfulness  of  vale  and  hill ; 
It  clothes  the  mountains  with  their  tranquil  green  ; 
The  rivers  have  in  it  their  lustrous  source  ; 
The  sky  drinks  in  its  sapphire,  and  the  sea 
Smiles  in  its  smile ;  the  forests  own  its  touch  ; 


50  MY  OLD  LETTERS.  [line  517. 

It  weaves  the  rainbow  with  its  cunning  hand, 
A  garland  for  the  clouds,  out  of  the  dark 
Evoking  light  and  beauty.     Ere  man  was, 
It  had  prepared  for  him  this  fertile  globe, 
And  stored  its  deepest  regions  with  provision 
For  the  great  race  that  was  to  dwell  on  it, 
The  wealth,  the  fuel,  and  the  fruitfulness ; 
Its  very  rocks  replete  with  hoarded  light. 
And  He  who,  in  His  all-foreseeing  love, 
Set  in  the  firmament  that  mighty  sun, 
Filled  its  benignant  beams  with  life  for  man 
And  man's  new  world,  the  last  and  loveliest 
Of  the  Creator's  handiworks,  whose  soil 
Was,  in  the  fulness  of  the  times,  to  be 
The  clay  in  which  the  eternal  Son  of  God, 
The  Word  made  flesh,  was  yet  to  wrap  Himself, 
When  He  came  down  to  live  a  human  life 
And  die  a  human  death,  that  life,  not  death, 
Might  be  the  heritage  of  sinning  man. 

O  constant  rain  of  God,  which,  day  by  day, 
So  mutely  fallest  on  the  eager  earth, — 
Not  in  cold  showers,  like  that  which  men  call  rain, 
But  in  unceasing  tho'  invisible  drops, 
Like  a  warm  dew,  both  day  and  night  distilling, — 
Water  this  soul  of  mine  !     O  heavenly  breeze, 
Blow  where  thou  listest,  blow,  invisible, 
But  not  inaudible  !     We  hear  the  sound, 
Yet  know  not  whence  it  comes,  or  to  what  part 
It  goes, — all  uncontrollable  by  man, 
Mysterious  in  its  motions,  and  obeying 
In  its  strange  rise  and  fall,  its  ebb  and  flow, 


line  548.]  BOOK  II.  51 

A  law  and  will  beyond  man's  will  and  law, 

Yet  not  the  less  beneficent  and  real. 

Blow,  blessed  breeze  !     Descend,  persuasive  rain, 

In  fruitful  fulness  !     Hasten  the  long  spring 

And  longer  summer  of  this  waiting  world  ! 

Full  sorely  does  this  day  of  varied  ill, 

That  knoweth  not  its  own  infirmities, 

Need  all  your  fulness,  double  fount  of  life 

Celestial ;  for  earth  is  out  of  course  ; 

Some  universal  solvent  is  at  work, 

And  the  old  social  fabric  falls  to  pieces 

Beneath  its  penetrating  influence. 

Destroy,  disintegrate,  and  overthrow, — 

This  is  the  watchword  of  a  restless  time, 

Which  to  rebuild  and  reconsolidate 

Has  not  the  will  nor  wisdom  ;  'tis  the  age 

Of  the  destroyer,  not  the  architect. 

Wake,  sleeping  seeds  of  all  the  ages  past, 
And  send  up  thro'  the  soil  that  long  has  hid  you, 
Your  blade  and  blossom !     Wake,  and  sleep  no  more  ! 
We  need  you  now  ;  awake,  arise,  and  bloom, 
Let  loose  your  odours  thro'  the  sighing  air, 
And  turn  its  sighs  to  sweetness  and  to  love. 

There  be  four  races  of  what  men  call  flowers, — 
Four  families  of  beauty,  that  have  been, 
Or  are,  or  yet  shall  be  ;  and  all  divine  : 
Flowers  of  a  Paradise  above,  that  ne'er 
Has  been  or  shall  be  lost,  for  ever  fair, 
For  ever  fragrant,  in  yon  heaven  of  heavens  ; 
Flowers  of  a  garden  planted  once  on  earth, 
But  blighted  by  the  serpent's  hateful  slime  ; 


I  MY  OLD  LETTERS.  [line  579. 

Flowers  of  a  fallen  soil,  that  might  have  been 
One  lovesome  Eden,  had  no  taint  of  sin, 
Like  shadow  of  an  evil  angel's  wing, 
Fallen  on  its  budding  beauty,  shrivelling 
Its  noble  youth  into  a  quick  decay ; 
Flowers  of  a  Paradise  that  has  not  yet 
Been  seen  on  earth,  but  one  day  shall  be  here, 
And  for  whose  coming  we  with  hopeful  heart 
Wait  amid  all  this  death,  expecting  then 
God's  re-donation  of  His  primal  gift 
To  man,  of  His  fair  earth  and  gracious  sky. 

The  sun  is  rising,  and  the  nimble  night 
Hastes  to  be  gone,  as  fleeing  from  his  blaze, 
With  her  affrighted  host ;  now  beaming  day 
Is  dawning  thro'  the  night-long  mists  of  time  ; 
The  poisonous  vapours  of  a  tainted  soil, 
Where  evil  has  so  deeply  struck  its  roots, 
Are  vanishing  in  incense  ;  discord  dies, 
And  harmony,  like  heaven's,  comes  in  its  room  ; 
The  long  dark  tunnel  of  the  ages,  filled 
With  sounds  too  sorrowful  for  angels'  ears, 
Thro'  which  we  have  been  passing,  endeth  now, 
And  we  emerge  into  a  sun-bright  noon. 
God  taketh  His  own  time,  and  hasteth  not : 
His  rest  is  motion,  and  His  motion  rest ; 
He  waiteth  on  His  laws,  they  wait  on  Him. 

But  I  am  wandering  from  my  briefs,  and  yet 
Thoughts  such  as  these  come  up  as  I  recall 
Events  and  scenes  and  names  recorded  there. 
Things  live  again  that  seemed  for  ever  dead  ; 


line  609.]  BOOK  II.  53 

The  graves  of  great  men  have  immortal  voices, 
And  even  meaner  tombs  have  much  to  say, 
Would  we  but  listen  to  their  humbler  words, — 
Humbler,  yet  not  less  true  and  pure  and  noble. 
The  whole  wide  earth,  and  not  one  realm  alone, 
As  the  great  Greek  once  said,  is  sepulchre 
For  noble  men  ;  and  yet  the  quiet  tomb, 
In  the  lone  glen,  of  the  more  lowly  good, 
Without  a  monument  or  epitaph, 
Invites  the  pilgrim's  step  and  wins  his  soul. 

Here  fold  I  up  my  pages  for  an  hour, 
And  walk  abroad  into  the  free  blue  air. 
This  is  the  shade  of  shades,  no  shadow  like  it, 
Beneath  the  beech's  over-bending  boughs. 
The  ever-welling  spring  bursts  blithely  forth, 
Drenching  the  long  and  pendent  grass  beneath  ; 
O'er  us  the  noon-birds  carol  lovingly, 
And  the  bee  swings  itself  from  bloom  to  bloom  ; 
Far  through  the  shaken  foliage  gleams  the  lake, 
Light  on  its  clear  broad  brow.     One  page  I  take 
Of  these  old  scrolls,  and  read  it  as  I  sit 
Or  wander  'neath  the  shade ;  and  thus  it  speaks 
Of  the  great  works  which  solitary  men 
Have  done  for  God,  for  country,  and  for  earth. 

*  Right  in  the  face  of  storm  the  lightning  goes, 
With  its  one  fork  of  terror  and  of  power, 
Fronting,  not  fleeing  from  nor  following, 
The  blast  that  levels  woods  and  lifts  the  waves  ; 
Like  a  skilled  warrior  brandishing  his  sword, 
And  bringing  down  its  edge  upon  some  giant, 


54  MY  OLD  LETTERS.         [line  639. 

Hewing  his  way  thro*  power  and  bulk  and  fierceness  ; 

So  let  us  with  the  sword  of  God-given  truth, 

Face  foe  on  foe,  as  if  to  us  alone 

Were  given  the  sword  that  is  to  save  the  world, 

To  sweep  the  spoiler  from  the  earth,  and  win 

The  everlasting  victory  of  time. 

'  See  how  the  past  gleams  everywhere  afar. 
With  single  swords  unsheathed  and  waved  aloft, 
When  all  around  are  scabbarded  and  rusting ! 
See  how  the  deeds  that  make  up  history, 
The  works  that  tell  on  nations,  have  been  done 
By  single  arms  and  solitary  souls  ! 
See  how  the  words  that  have  rung  thro'  the  eras, 
Made  kingdoms  stand  in  awe,  and  carried  health 
To  palsied  peoples,  making  dead  men  live, 
Have  issued  not  from  crowds,  but  lonely  voices  ! 
Not  pomp,  nor  gold,  nor  numbers  have  been  honoured 
To  do  the  works  or  speak  the  words  of  God. 
Tis  the  one  master-wheel  that  moves  the  mill, 
The  rest  do  only  what  the  master  bids  them. 
The  multitude  may  do  the  little  things 
Of  hourly  history  ;  the  great  are  done 
By  lonely  men,  the  Prophet  or  the  Judge, 
Who  take  their  mission  straight  from  Him  whose  word 
They  come  to  do  ; — the  prophet-child  of  Ramah, 
Or  he  of  Gilead  in  rough  raiment  clad, 
Gideon  or  Jephthah,  or  the  Maccabee 
Of  Modin,  when,  like  giant  from  the  hills 
Of  Dan  descending,  in  his  warrior-strength 
He  shivered  the  proud  Syrian  sword  and  shield, 
And  lifted  fallen  Israel  from  the  dust. 


line  670.]  BOOK  II  55 

1  Thus,  when  God  loves  a  people,  and  would  save 
A  shipwrecked  kingdom  from  the  waves  and  rocks, 
He  for  Himself  creates  some  son  of  might, 
And  sends  him  forth  with  the  delivering  sword  ; — 
Some  man,  till  then  unknown,  till  then  uncrowned, 
From  out  the  common  crowd  of  citizens  ; — 
Some  man  of  strength,  like  England's  yeoman,  who 
In  evil  days,  when  storm  went  thro'  the  realm 
And  threatened  universal  shipwreck,  took, 
In  the  calm  consciousness  of  power  to  rule, 
The  stroke-oar  of  the  giddy  reeling  empire, 
Steadied  the  barque,  cheered  the  desponding  crew, 
And  brought  its  creaking  timbers  to  the  strand, 
To  be  refitted  by  the  skill  that  saved  it ; — 
Some  man  of  thought,  like  Bacon,  rising  up 
In  strength  of  chastened  intellect  and  love, 
Moulded  and  mellowed  by  the  God-given  truth, 
To  which  he  has  submitted  his  large  soul, 
And  in  which  he  has  steeped  his  varied  being ; 
He  shines  in  darkness,  and  sends  on  his  light 
To  after  ages,  setting  free  the  mind 
Of  a  great  realm  from  bondage  of  the  past, 
Heading  the  storm,  not  yielding  to  the  gale, 
Speaking  with  thunder-voice,  and  yet  with  head 
All  reverently  bowed  before  a  voice 
Mightier  and  more  majestic  than  his  own. 
His  words  go  thro'  the  land,  like  arrows  keen, 
Feathered  with  lightning  ;  and  they  carry  life, 
Not  death  and  wounds  ;  they  fill  the  nation's  veins 
With  renovated  health,  the  gift  of  Heaven. 

1  The  lower  millstone,  tho'  it  moveth  not, 


56  MY  OLD  LETTERS.         [line  701. 

Grindeth  as  truly  as  the  upper  grinds. 
Let  us  but  know  our  place,  our  work,  our  time, 
And  all  is  well.     It  is  the  mis-timed  life 
That  fails,  and  wastes  itself  in  efforts  vain, 
Like  ship  without  a  pilot  or  a  helm. 

*  One  in  an  age  they  rise  and  pass  away  ; 
One  in  a  nation  they  come  forth  and  stand 
Above  their  fellows,  mighty  men,  but  meek, 
Noble,  yet  patient ;  conscious  of  an  errand 
Which  must  be  done,  whoever  may  oppose  ; 
Big  with  an  inspiration  not  of  earth  ; 
Charged  with  a  message  to  the  sons  of  men, 
Which  must  be  spoken  out  before  they  die. 

1  What  will  it  be  when  all  these  sons  of  fame, 
The  peerage  of  the  ages,  shall  sit  down 
Together,  in  a  day  that  yet  shall  come, 
And,  welcoming  each  other,  shall  recount 
The  annals  of  their  age,  as  they  have  known 
And  acted  them,  themselves  its  history  ? 
What  will  that  feast-board  be,  and  what  that  hall, 
Where  they  who  have  obtained  the  good  report 
Shall  meet  together  in  one  holy  band, 
And  tell  the  tale  of  earth  from  the  beginning, 
Revealing  all  the  hidden  springs  of  thought 
And  speech  and  action  to  each  other  there  ? 

'  The  stars  have  looked  each  other  in  the  face 
For  ages,  yet  have  never  met ;  the  peaks 
Of  the  far-severed  and  all-stedfast  hills 
Have,  with  their  mitres  of  eternal  snow, 
Gazed  on  each  other,  yet  remained  apart. 
The  winds  and  waves  and  clouds  embrace  each  other; 


line  732.]  BOOK  II  57 

Earth's  universal  network  of  clear  streams 

Is  one  sweet  fellowship  of  many  climes, 

But  stars  and  peaks  remain  unlinked  and  lone. 

*  So  is  it  now  ;  what  it  may  be  hereafter, 
We  know  not :  what  the  endless  fellowships 
And  close-linked  companies  of  bright  and  great 
One  day  may  be,  we  cannot  tell ;  nor  yet 
How  soon,  from  the  tall  turret-clock  of  time, 
Shall  sound  the  signal  which  must  gather  all 
The  light-begotten  children  of  the  one 
Great  family  of  light,  to  the  bright  joy 
Of  the  one  festival  which  cannot  end.' 

Thus  ends  the  page.     I  fold  it  up,  and  quit 
The  leafy  shade,  returning  home  ;  and  as 
I  go,  I  gather  up  the  thought,  and  say, 
Yes,  it  is  even  so  ;  but  yet  the  veil 
Before  the  patient  future  still  remains. 

All  earthly  things  end  in  their  opposites, 
And  to  their  opposites  give  silent  birth  : 
Night  ends  in  day,  and  day  in  night  again  ; 
Life  begets  death,  and  death  begetteth  life. 
All  things  revolve,  and  back  into  themselves 
Return;  as  the  clouds  fill  the  streams,  the  streams 
The  sea,  the  sea  the  clouds,  all  circling  round. 

As  yet  the  age  of  constancy  and  progress 
Lingers  upon  its  way  to  us, — the  day 
When  life  shall  rise  into  a  nobler  life, 
And  brightness  shall  give  only  place  to  that 
Which  is  yet  brighter ;  when  the  daily  flowers, 
Instead  of  blanching,  shall  take  on  fresh  hues, 
And  earth  grow  ever  greener ;  when  the  circle 


53  MY  OLD  LETTERS.         [line  763. 

Of  joy  and  grief,  which  maketh  up  to  man 
His  annual  orbit  here,  shall  be  unknown  ; 
When  sleep  shall  be  a  glorious  trance,  and  dreams 
All  Bethel-visions  ;  when  no  wakeful  night 
With  its  alarms  shall  make  the  watcher  say, 
When  shall  this  tossing  weariness  be  gone? 
When  all  life's  neutral  tints  shall  flush  into 
The  rich  and  brilliant  hues  of  endless  health, 
When  no  dim  future,  no  dark  dread  of  change, 
No  fear  of  broken  links  and  ended  love, 
And  shadowy  sick-bed  and  the  greedy  tomb, 
Shall  burden  the  bright  hours  of  songful  noon  ; 
When  all  shall  be  ascent,  and  still  ascent, 
One  happy  cycle  of  unchanging  day ; 
No  settings  more,  save  those  by  which  the  stars 
Die  in  the  sunlight  and  are  lost  in  dawn. 


BOOK    III. 


1  Yes,  of  myself  shall  be  my  song  to-day.' 

Thus  long  since  wrote  the  friend  of  other  years, 

Who,  in  the  prime  of  promise  and  of  joy, 

Left  us  to  win  dear  health  in  kindlier  climes, 

And  to  seek  wider  range  of  spirit  where 

New  scenes  and  men  call  out  new  thought  and  feeling ; 

Pitching  his  tent  beneath  less  wayward  skies, 

'Mid  breezes  more  benignant  than  his  own  : 

Now  in  the  classic  East  afar,  to  pluck 

Ionian  violets,  sweetest  of  the  sweet ; 

Or  by  the  rock  of  Hissarlik,  to  watch 

How  the  flocks  graze  upon  old  Priam's  tomb  ; 

Now  upon  Nizza's  mountain-girdled  plain, 

Now  by  the  crescent  of  calm  Spezia's  bay  ; 

Or  by  the  banks  of  Arno,  underneath 

The  laurels  of  the  laurelled  city,  where 

Wisdom  and  art  and  song  in  ages  past 

Held  more  than  regal  sway  ;  again  amid 

Rome's  labyrinth  of  temples  and  of  tombs  ; 

Now  by  the  cliffs  from  which  Amalfi  smiles, 

Thro'  her  vine-clustered  columns  of  fair  marble, 

O'er  the  Salernian  gulf  and  Tyrrhene  sea  ; 

Now  on  the  steeps  of  the  Euganean  hills, 


50 


6o  MY  OLD  LETTERS.  [line  24. 

To  breathe  old  Arqua's  everlasting  spring, 

And  bid  the  nightingale,  whose  songs  are  dreams, 

Sing  to  the  stars  its  love-begotten  lay ; 

Or  on  some  Umbrian  slope,  upon  the  marge 

Of  Nera  or  Clitumnus,  as  they  wind 

Thro'  Sabine  pastures,  ere  they  link  themselves 

With  Tuscan  Tiber  on  its  way  to  Rome ; 

Now  by  the  plain  where,  desolate  and  lone, 

Reft  of  its  roses,  Paestum  sleeps  its  sleep, 

Still  shadowed  by  its  snowy  Apennine 

(Its  double  harvest  now  of  thorns  alone) 

'Mid  its  three  solemn  ruins  ;  or  beside 

The  dead  wolf-city  of  the  Libyan  hills  ; 

Or  in  the  southern  vales  of  ruined  Spain, 

Twin-sister  of  the  African  Sahara, 

Where,  by  the  winged  Darro,  the  Alhambra, 

Half  palace  and  half  fortress,  rears  its  pride, 

Hard  by  the  hill  famed  in  Iberian  song, — 

Granada's  hill,  place  of  the  Moor's  last  sigh, 

Where  in  the  silence  of  suppressed  despair 

He  bade  farewell  to  his  beloved  Spain  ; 

Or  underneath  fair  Jaffa's  orange-blooms, 

Or  the  long  slope  of  fragrant  Lebanon, 

Where  old  Phoenicia  with  her  daughters  dwelt, — 

Sidon  and  Arvad  and  Berytus  fair, 

And  Tyre,  the  city  of  the  island-rock, 

Queen  of  the  seas  ere  Rome  had  found  a  name, 

Or  Argos  sent  its  thousand-galleyed  fleet 

Against  the  towers  of  wind-swept  Ilion. 

*  Yes,  of  myself  shall  be  my  song  to-day, 
As  I  sit  here  in  pleasant  loneliness, 


line  55.]  BOOK  III  61 

Village  and  city  left  alike  behind, 

And  nought  of  man  within  the  reach  of  ear 

Or  eye,  save  yon  far  sail  or  rising  smoke, 

While  dawn  is  making  ready  to  come  up 

Behind  that  sea,  upon  whose  mirror  meet 

Noon's  first  and  night's  last  gleams, — a  sea  as  calm 

As  that  on  which  the  lion  of  St.  Mark's 

Has  for  six  centuries  looked  mutely  down. 

How  real  at  this  fresh  hour  all  nature  seems ! 

This  stillness  is  reality  itself, — 

Reality  without  a  voice  or  sound  ! 

How  real  this  night  has  been,  and  these  clear  orbs, 

That  just  have  passed  in  beauty  out  of  sight ! 

This  dawn,  how  real,  tho*  shadows  sweep  its  sky  ; 

This  star-girt  earth,  and  this  mysterious  air 

In  which  it  swims,  and  these  perpetual  ripples, 

That  roll  themselves  in  childlike  sport  upon 

The  sand  and  shingle  of  this  rock-fenced  bay  ! 

The  very  silence  of  the  sea  takes  voice, 

And  speaks  old  music  that  has  slumbered  there 

Since  Orpheus  flung  his  lyre  upon  the  waves. 

All  things  around  me  and  above, — the  peak 

That  wears  upon  its  shoulders  like  a  robe 

That  dreamy  mist,  and  these  substantial  clouds  ; 

That  boulder  by  the  stream,  these  pines  that  bend 

To  the  slow  breath  of  dawn,  tho'  not  unused 

To  the  rude  turbulence  of  angry  winds, 

Are  true.     No  night-begotten  fantasies 

Are  these,  no  visions  of  the  sick  or  idle  ; 

No  mythic  phantom  is  this  noble  cliff, 

That  drops  its  shadow  on  yon  sloping  strand ; 


62  MY  OLD  LETTERS.  [line  86. 

Xo  fable  is  yon  ever-singing  brook, 

Whose  murmur  is  the  music  of  the  morn, 

Whose  sparkling  silver,  like  a  luminous  cord, 

Binds  while  it  braids  the  many-coloured  robe 

Of  that  green  vale  below,  which  seems  to  clasp 

All  summer  in  its  arms ;  no  dreamer's  dream 

The  tremulous  verdure  of  yon  winding  wood, 

Dripping  with  dew  and  sunshine  ;  nor  these  flowers, 

Which  like  low  melodies  fill  all  the  air 

With  happy  fragrance,  each  new-bursting  bud 

A  beauty  and  a  gladness  and  a  song. 

This  circling  atmosphere,  in  calm  or  storm, 

With  its  great  navies  of  slow-sailing  clouds, 

Some  pure  as  snowy  Alp,  some  rich  with  hues 

Which  never  came  from  earth,  some  red,  as  if 

Flushed  with  the  fiery  thunder  from  afar ; 

The  silent  footfalls  of  the  quiet  stars, 

Moving  in  measured  grace  across  the  blue 

All  the  night  long,  how  true  they  seem  to  me ! 

And  yet  this  throbbing  dawn  with  its  new  life, 

That  vibrates  wide  and  far,  seems  truer  still ; 

For  night  is  feeble  and  the  day  is  strong, 

Midnight  relaxes  and  the  morn  restores. 

I  walk  abroad  beneath  the  quickening  light, 

And  make  its  strength  my  own.     O  mighty  sunrise, 

How  have  I  loved  you,  and  with  a  deep 

Intensity  of  spirit  drunk  your  joy  ! 

I  see  the  day  approaching  when  that  sun 

Shall  cease  to  scorch,  but  never  cease  to  shine ! 

*  Amid  the  thoughts  of  hollow  unbelief, 
That  would  turn  all  to  fable,  I  would  grasp 


lineii;.]  BOOK  III.  63 

These  genuine  things  of  nature,  and  would  feel 

How  real  is  this  universe,  unseen 

Or  seen,  impalpable  or  palpable  ; 

How  much  more  real  He  from  whom  it  came, 

And  who  inhabits  its  prolific  space  ! 

What  though  a  shadow  falleth  everywhere  ? 

The  shadow  tells  me  that  the  sun  is  up, 

The  unclouded  sun,  and  that  the  night  is  gone ; 

For  it  is  light  that  casts  the  shadow,  and 

I  know  that  where  it  is  the  truth  must  be. 

'  Faith's  vision  is  the  vision  of  the  real ; 
The  true  and  the  enduring  are  the  things 
We  see  not,  for  the  supernatural 
Hancrs  over  and  around  us  in  these  skies. 
That  which  we  see  and  hear  and  touch  is  not 
The  all  of  being,  and  outside  this  sphere 
Of  our  poor  vision  there  are  other  realms 
And  other  beings  truer  still  than  these. 
Yet  'tis  not  mystery,  but  that  which  lies, 
Clear  or  less  clear,  within  its  golden  mist 
Enshrined,  that  the  soul  longs  for,  and  with  which 
Alone  its  longings  can  be  satisfied. 
'Tis  not  the  veil,  but  the  invisible  shrine, 
The  home  of  the  Unsearchable  beyond, 
That  the  soul  yearneth  for, — a  strange  true  world, 
Far  off  yet  also  near,  and  intermixed 
With  ours,  where  the  good  angels  go  and  come, 
And  which  with  the  invisible  majesty 
Of  an  all-present  Power  is  filled  throughout. 

*  The  untrue  liveth  only  in  the  heart 
Of  vain  humanity,  which  fain  would  be 


6\  MY  OLD  LETTERS.         [line  148. 

Its  own  poor  centre  and  circumference, 
Smiling  or  scowling  at  the  name  of  aught 
Beyond  the  narrow  circle  of  the  sense, 
As  visions  of  the  visionary  soul, 
As  follies  of  the  weak  and  credulous. 
For  men  believe  but  what  they  wish,  no  more  ; 
And  their  profoundest  creed  is  built  on  doubt : 
With  them  all  unbelief  is  honesty, 
And  all  belief  but  weakness  or  pretence. 
1  To  creaturehood  belongeth  poverty, 
Failure,  and  hollowness  ;  to  God  alone 
Pertains  the  perfect  and  the  ever-true. 
Tis  He  who  without  voice  can  speak  to  us, 
And  who  without  our  voice  can  hear  us  speak. 
Once  did  I  hear  a  faint  lip  whisper  thus, 
Yet  hardly  speaking,  for  the  words  were  low, — 
"  God  of  the  light,  illuminate  this  gloom  ! 
The  light  is  Thine,  and  I  Thy  creature  need  it ; 
Share  it  with  me !     In  Thee  is  light  enough 
For  widest  creaturehood  ;  Thou  canst  not  grudge 
One  beam  to  this  dim  soul ;  and  that  one  beam, 
What  would  it  not  accomplish  ?     Thou  couldst  give  it ; 
Thou  wouldst  not  miss  it,  nor  would  Thy  fair  heaven 
Be  dimmer  for  the  gift,  nor  would  Thy  angels 
Feel  as  if  thus  they  had  been  robbed  of  light ; 
Nor  would  one  eye  above  less  brightly  sparkle 
Because  another  eye  below  was  glad. 
Enough  for  me,  whatever  ills  might  come, 
Would  that  soft  beam  of  Thine  for  ever  prove  ; 
And  this  dark  atom  of  creation,  as 
I  feel  myself  to  be,  would  give  Thee  praise. 


line  179.]  BOOK  III.  65 

Giver  of  light,  oh,  give  that  light  to  me  ! 
I  look  above  me,  and  I  see  each  night 
Squadrons  of  beaming  orbs  all  marshalled  yonder, 
Millions  of  suns,  with  light  enough  for  all 
This  infinite  universe  ; — oh,  is  there  not 
In  Him  who  kindled  them,  and  keeps  them  still 
Blazing  undimmed,  enough  of  light  for  me  ?  " 
1  Another  voice  I  heard,  less  faint  and  low, 
Of  one  who  sought  the  true,  and  seeking  found  it ; 
Who  wooed  fair  knowledge  as  a  heavenly  bride, 
Nor  wooed  in  vain  ;  who,  taking  straight  his  way 
To  the  one  Fountain-head  of  truth,  to  Him 
Who  giveth  largely  and  upbraideth  not, 
Was  taught  by  Him  who  could  not  teach  amiss. 
Conscious  of  pain  and  ill,  but  above  all 
Of  the  deep  void  within  an  unfilled  heart, 
He  sought  for  fulness,  and  the  fulness  flowed, — 
Bread  for  a  famished  spirit,  and  it  came  ; 
For  He  who,  as  each  yellow  August  shows 
Its  empty  barns,  fills  them  all  up  anew 
For  winter's  hunger,  unsolicited, 
Pours  the  immortal  food  into  the  soul, 
That,  in  the  winter  of  its  famine,  asks 
Of  Him  the  living  and  eternal  bread. 
The  voice  I  heard  in  its  strong  pleading  said  : 
"  Oh,  pity  this  my  aching  hollowness  ; 
Strip  me  of  the  unreal  and  untrue, 
And  show  me  Him,  the  infinitely  real, 
Who  said  not,  I  am  thought,  but,  I  am  truth; 
Who  said  not,  I  am  power,  but,  I  am  love. 
'Tis  an  untruthful  world  in  which  I  live; 


66  MY  OLD  LETTERS.         [line  210. 

Duped,  disappointed,  cheated  I  must  be, 
If  I  with  it  am  one,  and  take  my  part 
Amid  its  mockeries  of  gold  and  wine. 

1  "  Out  from  a  hollow  world  I  would  pass  up 
To  Thee  in  whom  I  live  and  move  and  am. 
Being  of  beings,  I  was  made  for  Thee  : 
Life  is  not  life,  and  love  is  but  a  dream, 
Apart  from  Thee.     O  Spirit  wise  and  good, 
Make  conquest  of  my  will  ;  let  thy  soft  chains 
Bind  me  with  double  bond  of  love  and  power. 
Enter  and  reign  within  ;  fill  up  my  being ; 
Then  am  I  true  and  real ;  I  am  myself, 
And  not  another,  as  I  hitherto 
Too  oft  have  been  !     Then  drink  I  in  the  health 
And  freedom  of  the  liberating  cross. 
Pluck  up  each  root  of  bitterness,  and  make 
Each  plant  of  sweetness  to  grow  up  within  me. 
Oh,  drench  me  deeply  in  Thy  heavenly  dew, 
That  night  and  morning  droppeth  sweetly  down 
On  weary  spirits  from  Thy  blessed  heaven,  s  , 

Like  breath  of  angels  in  their  ministry. 
The  current  of  the  world  is  swift  and  strong ;         *, 
I  cannot  front  it,  save  with  Thee  to  help. 
This  world  is  not  upon  the  side  of  good, 
And  fair  truth  feebly  fights  its  onward  way 
Thro'  hostile  millions,  sworn  to  fight  it  down  ; 
Error  but  slowly  quits  the  field,  and  lurks 
In  every  thicket  in  its  sullen  flight. 
Thy  ways  are  labyrinths,  Thy  purposes 
Are  dark,  and  in  their  evolution  slow, 
And  hard  to  be  interpreted  ;  this  soil 


line  241.]  BOOK  III.  67 

Strewn  with  a  cold  confusion  everywhere, 
The  evil  and  the  good  mixed  up  together, 
The  truth  and  falsehood  working  side  by  side, 
Until  the  day  of  final  severance  !  " 

'To  error  and  to  evil  men  bid  welcome, 
As  to  old  friends,  and  unbelief  sits  down 
At  table  of  the  rich  and  poor  alike, 
A  pleasant  guest,  and  maketh  mirth  for  all 
Above  the  grave  of  truth,  with  jest  and  song. 
The  honesties  of  earth  fall  sick  and  die  ; 
And  men  for  place  or  fame,  or  viler  gold, 
Subscribe  what  they  believe  not,  hiding  deep 
What  they  believe.     The  old  nobilities 
Of  lofty  life  and  simple  courtesy 
Forsake  the  earth  ;  Truth  falleth  in  the  streets, 
And  no  man  stoops  to  raise  her  from  the  ground. 
Fall,  mighty  Truth  ;  thou  shalt  not  lie  for  ever, 
Nor  moulder,  where  thou  fallest,  into  dust ! 
The  clouds  are  higher  than  the  hills,  above 
The  clouds  the  planets  wander,  and  beyond 
These  kinsmen  of  this  globe,  the  holy  stars 
Wfalk  in  their  purity  :  all  these  may  die, 
Hills,  clouds,  stars,  planets,  but  thou  diest  not ; 
No  one  has  seen  thy  monument,  nor  shall. 

'  O  awful  silence  of  the  Eternal  One, 
Who  sits  above  and  sees  all  this  below, 
Yet  sees  as  if  He  saw  not,  hears  as  if 
He  heard  not ! — And  the  good  tries  hard  to  rise, 
Yet  sinks,  like  little  waves  far  out  at  sea  ; 
Or  specks  that  in  the  sky  like  rain-clouds  look, 
Yet  pass  without  a  shower  for  the  parched  earth. 


63  MY  OLD  LETTERS.        [line  272. 

0  Thou  who  sidcst  with  the  weak  against 
The  strong,  reveal  Thyself  at  length,  and  show 
Thyself  upon  the  side  of  good,  and  tell 

The  world  what  goodness  is,  and  what  is  truth. 
Tell  me  meanwhile  that  which  I  long  to  know, 
More  and  yet  more  of  the  true  things  of  which 
Thou  art  the  root  and  treasure-house,  that  I 
May  scatter  round  me  the  eternal  seed, 
And  make  earth  better  for  my  being  here. 
Teach  me,  each  moment  that  I  live,  some  deep 
And  sacred  lesson,  that  I  may  not  live 
In  vain,  nor  curse  the  day  that  I  was  born, 
Bearing  the  burden  of  a  useless  life. 
Oh,  tune  me,  mould  me,  mellow  me  for  use  ; 
Pervade  my  being  with  Thy  vital  force, 
That  this  else  inexpressive  life  of  mine 
May  become  eloquent  and  full  of  power, 
Impregnated  with  life  and  strength  divine. 
Put  the  bright  torch  of  heaven  into  my  hand, 
That  I  may  carry  it  aloft,  and  win 
The  weary  eyes  of  wanderers  here  below, 
To  guide  their  feet  into  the  way  of  peace. 

1  cannot  raise  the  dead,  nor  from  this  soil 
Pluck  precious  dust,  nor  bid  the  sleepers  wake ; 
Nor  still  the  storm,  nor  bend  the  lightning  back, 
Nor  muffle  up  the  thunder,  lest  its  roar 
Should  break  the  rest  of  my  sick  sleeping  boy  ; 
Nor  bind  the  Evil  One,  nor  bid  the  chain 

Fall  from  creation's  long-enfettered  limbs, 
To  make  all  nature  free  as  at  the  first, 
And  beautiful  as  free ;  but  I  can  live 


line  303.]  BOOK  III.  69 

A  life  that  tells  on  other  lives,  and  makes 
This  world  less  full  of  evil  and  of  pain, — 
A  life  which,  like  a  pebble  dropped  at  sea, 
Sends  its  wide  circles  to  a  hundred  shores. 
Let  such  be  mine  !     Creator  of  true  life ! — 
Thyself  the  life  Thou  givest,  give  Thyself, 
That  Thou  mayst  dwell  in  me,  and  I  in  Thee. 

1  I've  been  a  dreamer,  and  I've  seen  the  fields 
Where  the  peace-roses  blossom,  and  I  know 
Where  the  love-violets  breathe  their  matchless  sweets 
Into  the  luscious  air.     It  is  a  place 
To  which  our  tainted  sunshine  finds  no  way. 
Beneath  the  cross  they  grow,  and,  gently  freshened 
By  a  bright  river  whose  deep-hidden  fount 
Earth  knoweth  not,  they  spring,  and  bud,  and  bloom, 
But  never  die.     Thither  I'll  go,  and  thence 
Bring  peace  and  lo^e  to  a  distempered  age. 
I  in  my  very  weakness  will  be  power, 
Drawing  the  living  lightning  from  a  sky 
Beyond  these  clouds  of  time,  and  making  thus 
The  world  my  debtor  ere  I  pass  away. 

*  What  tho'  I  fall  upon  the  battle-plain, 
My  work  unfinished  ?     Let  me  not  despond, 
As  if  the  warfare  had  been  waged  for  nought, 
And  I,  with  all  my  toil,  had  lived  in  vain. 
The  bravest  take  the  front  and  are  cut  down, 
Nor  weeps  the  mother  of  a  timid  son  ; 
Yet  in  their  fall  they  conquer  for  all  ages, 
And  their  unfinished  fight  has  gained,  not  one, 
But  many  a  battle  for  the  struggling  earth. 
At  death  our  doing  of  the  work  is  o'er, 


70  MY  OLD  LETTERS.         [line  334. 

But  the  work  done  remains, — endures  for  ever. 
We  go,  but  that  which  we  have  done  lives  on, 
And  bears  its  proper  fruitage  after  us. 
We  are  the  leaf  and  blossom  ;  we  must  die, 
And  in  our  dying  bring  forth  higher  life. 

'  Not  what  we  see  or  hear  alone  is  real ; 
There  is  an  inner  being,  which  with  all 
Its  joys  and  griefs,  its  tempests  and  its  calms, 
Is  yet  more  real  than  this  palpable, 
In  which  man's  science  works,  to  which  his  eye 
Turns  for  the  beautiful,  round  which  his  mind 
Revolves  as  round  his  true  and  proper  pole. 

1  What  is  the  weariness  that  oft  weighs  down 
This  o'erwrought  frame  ?     I  see  it  not,  nor  hear  ; 
Yet  it  is  here,  pervading  brain  and  limb. 
What  is  this  bitterness  that  breaks  the  heart 
When  the  inexorable  grave  has  claimed 
The  loved  or  honoured  ?     'Tis  as  sternly  true 
As  the  sword-wound  dismembering  the  flesh. 
Shall  I  say  mockingly  to  my  torn  heart, 
Grieve  thou  no  more  ?     Or  to  my  heavy  eyes, 
Weep  not ;  as  if  my  tears  had  been  mere  weakness 
And  my  grief  folly,  idly  lavished  on 
A  phantom  which  a  wise  man  may  despise, 
And  which  a  brave  man  should  not  fear  to  face  ? 

1  Not  what  is  present  is  the  only  real. 
Next  July's  sun  and  next  December's  snows 
Will  not  be  more  ideal  than  the  past. 
June  will  bring  roses;  let  us  patiently 
Wait  on,  for  June  will  come,  and  with  it  come 
Roses  as  fair  as  those  once  sung  of  old 


line  365.]  BOOK  III.  71 

By  Teian  or  by  Venusinian  bard. 

To-day  will  die,  but  with  it  will  not  die 

That  which  is  real.     To-morrow  will  come  up, 

With  all  its  inner  and  its  outer  circles, 

With  its  still  throbbing  pulses,  swift  or  slow, 

Of  seen  and  unseen  life  ;  nay,  far  beyond 

What  we  call  death,  the  same  reality 

Unfolds  itself  hereafter ;  there  are  realms 

Stretching  between  us  and  the  seat  of  God, 

The  depths  and  heights  of  which  no  mortal  line 

Has  ever  compassed.     Science  plumes  her  wing, 

And  moves  from  star  to  star,  from  sun  to  sun, 

Measuring  all  visible  distance,  making  known 

The  secrets  of  each  orb,  and  spreading  out 

In  sevenfold  splendour  every  ray  of  light, 

Like  golden  casket  with  its  burning  gems, 

Discoursing  of  its  riches  and  its  power. 

There  is  a  land  beyond  these  beaming  orbs, 

These  pilgrims  of  the  million-peopled  sky, 

Into  which  science  has  no  entrance  found, 

In  which  she  celebrates  no  victories, 

And  which  she  therefore  would  pronounce  untrue, 

A  waste  without  a  dweller  or  a  tent, 

A  nebulous  continent  like  that  which  rises 

After  the  desert  shower  upon  the  sands 

Of  Arabah  or  Ramleh,  named  Sherab 

By  the  dark  rangers  of  the  wilderness. 

There  is  a  land  beyond  this  girdling  air, 

A  land  which  only  He  who  has  passed  thro', 

Or  who  has  dwelt  in  it,  can  tell  us  of. 

This  globe  of  ours  is  not  the  goodliest 


72  MY  OLD  LETTERS.         [line  396. 

That  navigates  the  immeasurable  sea 

Which  men  call  space, — that  ever  silent  sea, 

Across  whose  awful  face  no  tempest  breaks, 

Without  a  bottom  and  without  a  shore. 

He  is  no  dreamer  of  vain  dreams  who  says 

There  must  be  something  higher  and  more  perfect 

Than  what  we  see  around  us,  purer  far 

Than  this  stained  life  of  ours,  more  blessed  still 

Than  what  we  here  call  blessedness.     The  God 

Who  made  us  and  our  world  is  not  so  poor 

In  wisdom  or  in  power,  as  to  exhaust 

His  treasure-house  upon  our  little  world. 

If  there  be  then  an  earth,  why  not  a  heaven  ? 

If  man  has  here  upon  this  kindred  ground 

A  palace  or  a  dwelling  for  himself, 

Why  may  not  then  the  great  Creator  build 

A  nobler  mansion  for  Himself,  to  which 

He  may  invite  the  creature  He  has  made  ? 

To  whom  meanwhile  He  gives  this  poorer  earth, 

The  birth-place  and  the  cradle  of  a  greatness 

Which  eye  hath  not  yet  seen  nor  ear  hath  heard. 

*  He  who  in  name  of  grave  philosophy 
Smiles  at  my  Paradise,  yet  with  fond  ear 
Listens  while  Virgil,  in  his  flowing  verse, 
Sings  of  Elysium  and  its  fields  of  green, 
But  shows  himself  perverse  and  credulous, 
Child  of  an  unbelief  to  which  the  fabled 
Is  welcome  as  a  refuge  from  the  true. 

1  He  who  in  name  of  reason  or  of  science 
Calls  me  a  dreamer,  and  my  heaven  a  dream, 
Or  tells  me  that  I  need  not  look  beyond 


line  427.]  BOOK  III.  73 

These  hills  of  time,  that  sweep  of  burnished  sapphire, 

With  all  its  moving  and  unmoving  orbs, 

Or  the  unfathomed  and  far-sounding  sea, 

For  knowledge  or  for  joy, — he  mocks  my  spirit, 

Quenches  my  hope,  and  casts  me  to  the  ground  : 

He  is  as  one  who  flings  a  withering  frost 

O'er  a  fresh-blossomed  orchard,  or  as  one 

Who  turns  soft  music  into  discord  harsh, 

Or  into  stone  transforms  some  beating  heart. 

He  would  surround  this  wondrous  life  of  ours 

With  fabulous  nothings,  making  faith  a  lie, 

And  hope  a  cloud  just  passing  into  air. 

He  bids  me  call  this  world  a  prison-house, 

Girt  round  with  walls  which  I  can  never  scale, 

Without  a  gate  at  which  I  may  go  forth 

To  seek  and  find  a  wider,  truer  home, 

Nearer  the  seat  of  Him  whom  I  call  God, 

Maker  of  all,  and  higher  in  the  rank 

Of  that  creation  wherewith  He  has  filled 

His  pregnant  universe,  whose  measure  is 

Spacious  infinitude,  which  lovingly 

Clasps  in  its  crystal  and  invisible  casket 

The  works  of  Him  who  filleth  all  in  all. 

1  No  cloudland  yonder  mocks  the  trustful  gaze, 
And  no  illusion  cheats  the  groping  hand, 
Or  the  bewildered  spirit ;  all  is  true  ! 
No  night,  with  its  dark  billows  from  afar, 
Like  a  vast  sea,  rolls  in  upon  the  day. 
There  lies  the  realm  of  verity,  from  which 
All  falsehood  and  uncertainty  have  fled, 
Like  tremulous  mist  before  the  absorbing  sun. 


74  MY  OLD  LETTERS.         [line  458. 

Beyond  the  subtleties  of  misbelief, 
Or  the  enigmas  of  entangled  thought, 
Or  anxious  throbs  of  the  unresting  heart, 
That  trembles  at  its  own  ambiguous  echoes, 
Stretches  the  calm  expanse  of  light  divine. 

1  There  dreams  can  never  come,  and  fantasies 
Of  human  intellect  can  find  no  place  ; 
But  there  the  certain  and  authentic  dwell. 
Escaped  the  meshes  of  imprisoning  doubt, 
That  dragged  to  earth  the  spirit's  eagle  wing, 
We  soar  into  pure  liberty  of  vision, 
And  rest  upon  the  high  eternal  peaks, 
Round  which  no  cloud  can  ever  draw  its  veil 
To  hide  the  true  from  our  impatient  eye. 
No  oscillations  of  unsettled  faith, 
Eager  to  speculate,  and  counting  doubt 
The  badge  of  mind's  nobility,  the  test 
Of  mental  breadth  and  honesty  and  greatness  ; 
No  mazes  of  perturbed  or  ravelled  reason  ; 
No  visionary  guesses,  dark  or  sunny  ; 
No  insincerities  nor  empty  creeds  ; 
No  frozen  dogmas  nor  unreal  words, 
Whose  hollow  notes  moan  madly  thro'  the  soul : 
But  where  "we  know,"  "we  see,"  and  "  we  are  sure," 
Is  the  unfaltering  tone  of  happy  hearts, 
Who,  after  years  of  drifting  to  and  fro 
On  the  rough  Euxine  of  this  wayward  life, 
Have  found  their  everlasting  anchorage 
In  the  calm  bay,  round  which  the  eternal  hills 
Rise  with  their  girdle  of  celestial  green. 

'  Like  clouds  that  have  no  anchor  and  no  helm, 


line  489.]  BOOK  III.  75 

No  chart  nor  pilot  to  direct  their  prow, 
How  many  noble  hearts,  that  might  have  blest 
The  world,  and  found  rich  blessing  for  themselves, 
Sweep  o'er  life's  surging  sea  without  an  aim  ! 
Some  sleep  their  years  away,  as  if  becalmed  ; 
Some  rush  before  the  gale,  and  wreck  themselves 
Upon  an  unknown  coast  ;  some  round  and  round, 
As  in  a  maddening  maelstrom,  fancy-lured, 
Whirl  without  end,  until  their  barque  goes  down  ; 
Some  set  their  sails  for  a  far  land  of  gold, 
And  die  amid  its  gems  ;  some  court  the  storm, 
And  steer  into  its  bosom  ;  some  lie  down 
And  watch  the  lightning  as  it  spends  its  fire 
Upon  the  rock,  or  quenches  its  quick  glow 
In  the  dark  trough  of  the  absorbing  wave. 
To  such  the  present  and  the  seen  are  all  ; 
Beyond  the  circle  of  the  eye  and  ear 
All  is  a  void,  unpeopled  and  profound ; 
Nothing  exists  save  darkness,  into  which 
They  are  to  pass,  as  all  have  done  before, 
With  shuddering  step,  when  this  illusive  life 
Goes  down  beneath  them,  and  that  wrecker  Death 
Flings  them  upon  a  shore  of  nothingness, 
Themselves  a  vapour,  a  dim  wreath  of  smoke, 
The  shadow  of  a  shade,  dissolved  for  ever. 

'  O  labyrinth  of  life,  the  bitter-sweet, 
Which  all  have  tasted  save  the  happy  ones 
Who  have  gone  early  to  their  gentle  sleep, 
And  never  wept  a  tear  nor  sighed  a  sigh  ! 
Thrice-ravelled  mazes  !     The  quick  ebb  and  flow 
Of  the  wild  tide  within  us,  which  we  fain 


76  MY  OLD  LETTERS.        [line  520. 

Would  stay,  but  cannot ;  the  vehement  rise 

And  fall  of  the  fair  fountain  of  the  heart, 

That  swells  or  sinks,  we  know  not  how  or  when  ; 

The  things  that  men  call  love  and  hate  and  fear, 

The  agony  or  ecstasy  of  soul ; 

The  hemlock  or  the  palm,  the  thorn  or  rose  ; 

The  breaking  bubbles  of  the  cataract, 

In  music  or  in  thunder  as  they  pour ; 

The  silver  smoothness  of  the  summer  stream, 

That  sings  itself  to  sleep  beneath  the  willow  ; 

The  song,  the  sigh,  the  smile,  the  tear  together  ; 

The  cradle  and  the  grave  set  side  by  side  ! 

*  O  life  !  O  mystery  !  what  means  all  this  ? 
And  how  shall  I  interpret  the  caprice 
That  seems  to  rule  the  ages,  as  if  ill 
Had  mastered  good,  and  all  things  here  below 
Had  snapped  the  bonds  of  law  and  love  and  truth  ? 
Life  is  not  what  it  once  was  meant  to  be  ; 
Failure  and  change  make  up  our  days  and  years, 
And  man  dreams  daily  on,  still  fond  and  weak, 
Mistaking  disappointment  for  the  cloud 
On  which  the  rainbow  smiles,  and  not  the  cloud 
From  which  the  tempest  issues,  looking  for 
The  good  time  coming  which  has  never  come. 
Alas  !  the  glory  here,  like  yonder  sun, 
Is  made  for  setting,  lasting  but  a  day  : 
The  wise  have  written  vanity  on  all. 

'  Depths  are  on  every  side  of  us  ;  we  walk 
Upon  the  narrow  ledge  of  perilous  life. 
That  which  we  see  is  not  the  thing  that  is, 
Or  only  part  of  it  ;  and  no  man  knows 


line  55I-]  BOOK  III.  77 

The  meaning  of  his  own  most  simple  prayers, 
Or  comprehends  their  issues  ;  what  he  seeks 
Touches  a  thousand  circles,  far  and  near, 
Requiring  force  and  agency  and  skill, 
Which  only  God  can  either  loose  or  bind. 
The  thing  we  ask  for  we  can  tell ;  the  end 
Of  that  for  which  we  ask  is  far  beyond  us. 
Sometimes  before,  sometimes  behind  us  here 
Our  shadows  fall,  as  shines  the  sun  on  us. 
The  shadowless  is  nowhere  here  on  earth, 
Its  sun  is  never  high  enough  for  that. 
All  motion  tends  to  rest ;  the  universe 
Must  stagnate  soon  with  infinite  collapse, 
Unless  the  hand  that  set  its  orbs  a-rolling, 
With  impulse  ever  fresh  shall  keep  them  so. 

'  The  honours  of  the  earth  are  fading  fast ; 
Its  garlands  blanch  in  the  fierce  sun  of  time, 
And  crowns  grow  dim  with  age  ;  the  ancient  thrones 
That  represent  the  royalty  of  ages, 
And  symbolize  the  coming  monarchy, 
Unpropped  by  aught  save  the  unloving  steel 
Or  more  unloving  gold,  are  giving  way 
And  rocking,  as  the  earthquake  moves  along 
Beneath  them  ;  sceptre  after  sceptre  drops 
From  palsied  hands,  that  fain  would  grasp  it  still. 
This  Europe,  like  a  fleet  of  war-barques,  swings 
Hither  and  thither  on  her  straining  cables, 
With  all  the  shifting  winds,  and  seems  each  day 
Just  at  the  point  of  parting  with  her  anchors 
And  going  down,  like  the  great  city,  struck 
With  angel-millstone,  to  arise  no  more. 


78  MY  OLD  LETTERS.         [line  582. 

*  The  deep  affections  of  the  heart  dry  up, 
Scorched  by  the  lust  of  gold  or  power  or  pomp. 
Still  youth  believes  in  beauty,  feeds  on  flowers, 
Drinks  the  dear  sigh  of  one  whose  budding  love 
Is  sweeter  than  all  sweetnesses  to  him  ; 
Then  rushes  into  Mammon's  foul  embrace, 
Wooing  a  world  that  gives  no  love  for  love. 

1  O  wooed  and  won  and  lost,  enchantress-world  ! 
Whose  syren-song  sends  up  the  burning  pulse 
To  fever-heat,  and  bids  all  good  things  die  ! 
O  wooed  and  won  and  lost !     And  with  thee  lost 
All  the  bright  gods  and  goddesses,  which  seemed 
To  make  this  earth  to  me  a  heaven  below. 

0  wooed  and  won,  fair  world,  but  ever  wooed 
And  won  in  vain  ;  for  whose  false  comeliness 

1  left  the  wooing  of  a  fairer  world, 

That  might  by  this  time  have  been  surely  mine, 
And  in  the  gain  of  which  I  might  have  found 
A  heritage  of  beauty  and  of  joy 
Beyond  the  richest  tenancy  of  time. 

1  Ah  !  the  poor  soarage  of  this  mortal  wing ! 
We  rise  and  fall ;  we  fall  and  rise  again  : 
Yet  life  is  not  all  error,  nor  our  past 
All  weakness  and  all  failure  ;  forasmuch 
As  we  are  Heaven's  own  offspring,  there  are  thoughts 
Within  us  which  betray  their  birth  divine. 

'  Why  seek  I  what  is  earthly  ?     It  departs, 
And  leaves  me  emptier.     Why  trust  I  man 
Rather  than  Thee,  the  undeceiving  One  ? 
Thou  ever-faithful,  he  so  seldom  true  ; 
Thou  near  and  living,  he  far  off  and  cold ! 


LINE613.]  BOOK  III.  79 

I  cast  aside  the  finite  and  the  low ; 
Nought  will  suffice  but  that  which  is  divine. 
Matter  and  sense  are  but  the  lowest  round 
Of  the  high  ladder,  whose  invisible  top 
Rests  on  a  throne,  and  lands  me  in  a  city 
Whose  light  is  love,  eternal  and  divine. 

'  Tis  said  that  out  of  death  there  cometh  life, 
That  ashes  are  the  soil  whence  freshly  spring 
The  goodliest  of  the  goodly  trees  of  earth  : 
The  seed  we  sow  lives  not  except  it  die. 
So  did  I  see  it  when  my  idols  perished, 
When  life  died  down,  and  when  the  cistern  broke 
Which  for  myself  I  had  too  fondly  hewn. 
So  did  I  find  it  when  the  nightingale, 
To  which  I  had  so  fondly  listened,  died. 
So  did  I  know  it  when  the  earthquake  smote 
The  brilliant  shrine  which  hope  and  love  had  builded, 
To  be  at  once  my  temple  and  my  home. 

*  Then  I  discovered  the  now  empty  tomb 
Of  Him  who,  mightier  than  the  grave,  had  gone 
Up  from  its  silence  to  the  throne  of  light  ; 
And  in  that  sepulchre  I  found  the  link 
(Long  broken,  and  dissevered  from  its  chain) 
Between  me  and  the  heaven  from  which  this  earth 
Had  broken  loose,  like  a  rebellious  star. 
The  risen  Victor  there  had  fought  my  fight 
And  won  my  palm  ;  out  of  the  tomb  He  had 
Plucked  immortality  ;  its  emptiness 
But  pledged  to  me  the  fulness  of  the  life 
Which  out  of  death  His  victory  had  brought. 
Another's  power  had  done  the  mighty  work, 


So  MY  OLD  LETTERS.         [line  644. 

And  given  me  all  its  trophies  and  its  fruits ; 
Another's  life  had  won  for  me  the  life 
Immortal,  and  my  death  had  passed  away. 
The  love  that  seemed  to  fill  that  vacant  cell 
Was  more  than  morning  to  a  soul  like  mine  ; 
And  in  that  desolate  rock  of  Golgotha 
There  lay  the  firm  foundation-stone  on  which 
The  new  and  fairer  world  is  to  be  built, 
Awaiting  but  the  time  when  He  shall  say 
To  the  cold  ruins  of  this  broken  earth, 
u  Arise  from  your  pale  ashes,  and  put  on 
A  beauty  which  ye  never  knew  before." 
Then  shall  the  chaos  of  six  thousand  years 
Depart,  and  the  long  day  of  order  dawn. 

1  Old  story  tells, — it  may  be  false,  it  may 
Be  true,  I  know  not  which, — that  in  Thy  day 
Of  shame  and  agony  upon  the  wood 
Of  Calvary,  Thy  shadow,  Son  of  God, 
Fell  on  the  weeping  robber  at  Thy  side 
Upon  the  cross,  and  under  that  strange  wing 
He  refuge  found  from  the  oppressive  heat ; 
And  under  it,  to  Paradise  with  Thee 
He  went  rejoicing.     Even  so  on  me 
Let  that  same  shadow  fall ;  it  has  not  lost 
Its  sheltering  power  ;  and  so  upon  this  earth 
Let  it  abide,  that  in  the  sultriness 
Of  scorching  noons  it  may  refresh  this  waste, 
And  bring  back  the  lost  blessing  in  its  joy. 

1  Ours  is  a  world  of  symbols,  sky  and  earth 
Are  ciphered  o'er  with  type  and  imagery, 
Big  with  bright  truth  in  every  atom  here ; 


line  675.]  BOOK  III.  81 

And  nature  (as  we  call  it)  is  not  that 

Which  is,  but  that  which  shall  be  after  this, — 

The  outline  of  a  universe  where  all 

The  thoughts  of  God  are  ripened  into  fulness, 

Each  segment  rounded  to  a  glorious  whole. 

'  The  flowers  look  truer  and  more  lovable, 
More  like  their  own  sweet  selves,  at  eve's  pale  hour, 
Drenched  in  the  dreamy  light  which  twilight  brings ; 
So  earth  is  getting  truer  in  the  signs 
Above  us  and  beneath  us,  as  it  ripens 
Into  the  grey  of  years  ;  to  us  remain 
The  listening  and  the  learning  and  the  faith. 

'  I  would  not  sow  the  wind  nor  reap  the  storm  ; 
I  would  not  plough  the  waste  and  barren  deep  ; 
I  would  not  shoot  my  arrows  at  the  clouds, 
Xor  chase  the  thistle-down,  nor  count  the  sands : 
I  would  live  truly,  doing  a  true  work 
In  this  my  day  of  toil.     I  would  not  be 
The  fool  or  butterfly,  to  live  unloved 
And  die  in  vain,  unheeded  and  unmourned. 
I  would  distribute  thoughts  where'er  I  go, 
And  scatter  words  that  shall  new-mould  the  world. 
I  would  not  be  of  those  whose  cry  is  change, 
To  whom  all  fixity  is  feebleness ; 
Whose  mission  is  to  uproot  all  rooted  things, 
Unfasten  anchors,  slacken  keystones,  or 
Sponge  out  the  lines  of  everlasting  truth, 
Let  loose  uncertainty,  and  set  the  crown 
Of  honour  upon  unbelief  and  doubt, 
Giving  us  doubly  chaos  back  again.' 


BOOK    IV. 


'  YOU  say  I  went  to  dig  for  gold,  and  found 

But  silver,  or  perhaps  the  viler  clay. 

No  ;  I  set  forth  a  poor  man,  and  returned 

A  poorer,  as  men  reckon  poverty. 

But  in  that  land  of  strangers  I  have  found 

The  wealth  I  had  not  thought  of  going  for ; 

And  I  am  rich  in  the  eternal  gold.' 

So  runs  the  letter  that  lies  open  now. 

'  The  mist  had  fallen  upon  the  August  moor  ; 
Long  miles  of  ruddy  heath  that  spread  around 
Had  disappeared.     The  diamond  arch  of  heaven 
Seemed  all  dissolved  in  vapour  ;  the  bold  hills 
Melted  away  ;  the  forest  and  the  stream 
Became  invisible  ;  only  the  sound 
Of  the  not  distant  waterfall,  or  wind 
Struggling  among  the  trees,  reminded  me 
There  was  a  world  without,  altho'  I  could 
No  longer  see  it.     Scarce  an  hour  had  passed, 
When  the  dull  mist  began  to  raise  its  wreaths, 
And  the  old  world  stood  out  again,  all  fair. 

1  So  was  it  with  me  once,  when,  girt  with  mist, 
I  knew  no  world  but  the  few  feet  of  earth 
On  which  I  trod,  and  which  ere  long  would  be 


line  24.]  BOOK  IV.  83 

My  grave.     But  now  the  vapour  has  arisen, 

And  the  new  world  which  has  come  out  in  beauty 

Has  made  me  rich,  for  I  am  heir  of  all. 

'  Men  said  to  me,  Your  life  is  but  an  hour ; 
Go  and  enjoy  it  while  you  may  ;  'tis  poor 
And  brief.     They  said  to  me,  You  are  yourself 
A  mist,  a  shadow  ;  go  and  dig  for  gold, 
And  with  that  gold  buy  pleasure  while  you  may. 
I  went,  and  found  not  that  which  I  had  gone 
To  seek.     I  went,  and  found  what  I  had  not 
Been  seeking  :  mines  of  gold  and  rocks  of  gems, 
Tho'  not  of  earth,  beyond  the  hills  of  time. 
That  which  had  once  appeared  to  me  so  full 
Was  empty  now  ;  and  that  which  once  seemed  void 
Was  full.     The  beautiful  had  come  at  last, 
And  it  was  mine  for  ever.     Men  may  say, 
We  are  but  vapours,  and  our  life  a  cloud  ; 
We  are  but  dreamers,  and  our  life  a  dream  : 
The  deep  dumb  future,  into  whose  abyss 
We  drop  when  our  last  sigh  is  sighed,  is  nought 
But  the  dark  dissolution  of  the  mist 
Which  had  made  up  our  poor  existence  here. 
Not  such  am  I,  however  poor  my  life  ; 
Not  such,  by  Him  who  made  me,  was  I  meant 
To  be.     My  being  is  no  vapour-drift, 
That  rises,  spreads,  and  then  evanishes 
In  air.     My  future  is  not  nothingness, 
Nor  dead  oblivion  ;  all  my  past  yet  liveth, 
And  shall  live  evermore,  refined  from  dross, 
And  purged  from  the  sad  evil  that  has  stained  it. 
I  cannot  wholly  part  with  the  bright  love, 


84  MY  OLD  LETTERS.  [line  55. 

The  scenes  of  beauty,  sights  and  sounds  of  joy, 

That  made  it  what  it  was,  a  heritage 

Peculiarly  my  own,  the  mystic  fount 

And  parent  of  my  vast  eternity. 

When  I  have  reached  the  resting-place  beyond 

(Cloudland  and  wonderland  all  wandered  thro', 

Filled  with  the  untrue  and  the  true,  the  hues 

Of  unsubstantial  and  substantial  sunshine 

Still  brightening  or  mellowing  the  long 

Dim  vistas  of  my  threescore  years  and  ten), 

And  stand  upon  the  stable  hills  above, 

I  shall  look  back  upon  my  winding  way, 

Upon  the  heights  and  depths  of  all  my  being, 

Seeking  to  gather  from  the  wreck  or  drift 

Gems  for  eternity  ;  for  all  things  here 

Have  treasures  hid  in  them  which  cannot  perish, 

And  which  shall  one  day  be  restored  to  us. 

Be  it  our  life  is  but  a  mist,  a  cloud, 

Or  fragment  of  a  cloud,  yet  still  'tis  such 

As  hides  a  never-setting  star  behind, 

Which  will  shine  forth  when  all  the  cloud  is  gone. 

1  O  wondrous  air  above  me  and  around  ! 
Thou  upper  sea,  at  whose  deep  bottom  lies 
This  buried  earth  with  all  thy  shipwrecked  stores ! 
They  speak  of  ocean  paved  with  silent  gems, 
Ages  of  treasure,  gold  and  silver,  dropt 
Into  its  depths  by  those  who  sail  the  seas, 
And  over  which  the  cold  and  covetous  wave 
Rolls  to  and  fro,  hugging  its  guarded  wealth. 
But  when  I  think  upon  the  myriad  gems 
Of  mild  or  mighty  song  that  since  the  youth 


line  86.]  BOOK  IV.  85 

Of  Time  have  poured  into  thy  deeper  depths 
From  lip  or  lyre,  O  all-containing  air, 
With  thy  transparent  girdle  compassing 
This  globe,  I  ask  amazed,  What  has  become 
Of  the  far  more  than  pearls  cast  into  thee, — 
The  treasures  of  ten  thousand  melodies, 
Ruffling  or  soothing  thy  wide-wandering  waves 
Hour  after  hour  ?     Say,  whither  have  they  gone  ? 
Drift  they  like  derelicts,  or  have  they  sunk 
For  ever,  or  perhaps  sweetly  dissolved, 
Like  Cleopatra's  gem  ?     Say,  is  there  not 
Some  dauntless  diver  that  can  cunningly 
Descend  into  thy  gloom  and  gather  up 
That  wealth  of  melody,  more  precious  far 
Than  pearls  of  Taprobane,  or  the  gold 
Dark  hidden  in  the  unsearched  mines  afar  ? 

*  Of  all  that  real  which  is  or  is  to  be, 
Which  makes  this  life  of  mine  no  cloud  nor  dream, 
I  am  not  master ;  it  o'ermasters  me. 
I  mould  it,  and  it  mouldeth  me  ;  I  live 
In  it,  and  in  me  does  it  also  live ; 
It  is  a  part  of  me,  and  I  of  it, 
And  in  the  midst  of  that  invisible  force 
Which  it  contains,  how  helpless  I ;  but  still 
It  is  not  fate,  'tis  living  law  and  power 
Which  compass  me  around  and  make  my  life 
Most  free,  and  yet  controlled  by  life  as  free 
Without  me  and  above  me  every  hour. 
What  this  strange  being's  depths  contain  I  know  not ; 
Each  day's  events  and  words  dissolve  in  it 
Like  music  in  the  air,  and  pass  away  ; 


86  MY  OLD  LETTERS.         [line  117. 

And  what  of  these  may  yet  be  gathered  up 
Like  squandered  gold,  we  cannot  here  foretell  : 
All  true  things  of  the  past  shall  rise  again. 

1  Men  hate  the  definite  belief,  because 
It  binds  ;  but  binding  is  not  bondage.     See 
How  free  yon  planets  sweep  and  shine  and  wheel 
Hither  and  thither  in  their  May-day  dance ! 
See  how  yon  free  winds  sport,  yon  rivers  flow, 
Each  in  its  sphere  the  freest  of  the  free ! 
Yet  law  is  on  them,  and  their  freedom  springs 
From  their  acceptance  of  majestic  law, 
Which  binds  to  liberate  ;  for  law  is  but 
The  divine  outcome  of  the  true  and  perfect. 
Men  scorn  submission  to  another,  yet 
Somewhere  there  must  be  mastership,  a  will 
Bearing  on  other  wills,  a  helmsman  steering 
The  helpless  sail  thro'  the  enslaving  breeze, 
And  giving  freedom  to  the  barque  he  steers  ; 
All  order  else  and  progress  cannot  be. 
Obedience,  said  the  ancient  Greek,  of  blessincr 
Is  the  great  mother  ;  I  must  hourly  watch 
My  self-will,  which  like  a  rebellious  demon 
Lurks  deep  within  me,  ready  to  spring  forth, 
And  break  up  order,  ruining  my  peace  ; 
Nor  mine  alone,  but  that  of  all  around. 
Of  pride-begotten  strife,  the  history 
Of  this  disordered  earth  is  sadly  full. 
There  is  a  virtue  in  obedience, 
Obedience  pure  and  simple,  like  to  that 
Which  angels  yield  ;  yet  man  repudiates 
The  joy  of  meekness  and  the  calm  of  order, 


line  148.]  BOOK  IV.  87 

Too  proud  to  be  dependent,  and  forgetting 
That  to  obey  is  more  than  sacrifice. 

'  The  pilot  is  the  servant  of  the  gale, 
And  not  the  master.     Nature's  passive  power, 
Or  active  but  unconscious  energy, 
Defies  the  human  will ;  man  must  ally 
Himself  with  matter  to  subdue  or  mould  it, 
And,  yoking  to  his  chariot-pole  the  strength 
Of  fire,  o'erpower  the  all-resisting  force 
Which  hems  him  in  on  every  side,  and  makes 
Him  feel  the  helplessness  of  will,  as  now, 
Like  a  maimed  eagle,  it  attempts  to  soar, 
But  cannot,  for  its  hour  is  not  yet  come. 
Will  yon  bright  sea-bird  with  the  crescent  wing 
Drop  down  upon  the  wave  when  I  command  it  ? 
Its  will  obeys  not  mine,  nor  owneth  yet 
A  sway  which  one  day  will  belong  to  man. 
Will  yon  slow  cloud  dissolve  itself  in  sunshine, 
Or  will  that  sunshine  linger,  when  I  bid  it  ? 
Will  July  come  in  haste  because  I  call, 
Or  will  its  dying  roses  bloom  again 
Because  I  say,  O  roses,  wither  not  ? 
Will  midnight  melt  away  and  morn  come  up, 
Because  I  throw  my  window  wide  and  say, 
O  dayspring,  dawn,  and  bring  with  thee  the  scent 
Of  happy  flowers,  the  song  of  happier  birds  ? 
Will  these  twin-stars,  that  faintly  gleam  above  me 
As  sisters'  faces,  like  and  yet  unlike, 
Draw  near  to  me,  that  I  may  see  and  touch 
Their  silver  crests,  because  I  bid  them  come  ? 
Will  death  ungrasp  his  hard-locked  treasure,  when 


8$  MY  OLD  LETTERS.         [line  179. 

I  shout  in  his  deaf  ear  and  say,  Restore 
My  stolen  gold,  and  give  me  back  my  gems  ? 
Will  the  turf  pity  me,  when  one  by  one 
Recounting  all  my  blanks,  and  pointing  round 
To  the  thinned  circle  of  my  once  full  hearth, 
I  plead  to  see  the  blue,  blue  eyes  again, 
And  drink  the  softness  of  the  tender  breath, 
Sweeter  than  sweetness,  that  breathed  on  me  once, 
When  lip  met  lip,  in  pure  and  soft  delight, 
As  morning  rose  or  as  the  evening  fell  ? 

'  In  a  calm  dream,  one  mellow  August  morn, 
Methought  that  suddenly  I  came  upon 
An  old  and  long-neglected  garden,  once 
Rich  with  the  radiance  of  a  thousand  flowers, 
Now  desolate  and  hoary  ;  all  its  walks 
And  well-divided  borders  still  the  same  ; 
Tall  cypresses  its  girdle,  and  within, 
Each  odorous  shrub  that  flourishes  apace 
In  green  old  age,  when  the  blithe-beaming  flowers, 
Which  with  their  delicate  purple  wooed  the  dew, 
Have  all  long  since  died  down,  and  left  behind 
This  waste  of  withered  leaves  on  which  I  walk, — 
This  wilderness  of  melancholy  fragrance. 
Here  the  blue  lavender  shoots  up  its  stalk, 
And  there  the  thyme  its  tiny  blossoms  spreads  ; 
The  aged  box-tree  and  the  sable  yew, 
With  branches  lopped  into  a  shady  bower, 
In  which  there  was  the  broken  seat  where  once 
The  children  gathered  when  the  noon  was  hot, 
And  played  or  prattled  or  wove  daisy-wreaths. 
The  ivy,  too,  was  clustering  on  the  wall, 


LINE  210.]  BOOK  IV.  89 

And  the  old  nests  were  in  its  tangles  still, 
Filled  with  sere  leaflets,  but  the  nestlings  fled. 
Some  fragments,  too,  of  boyhood's  broken  toys 
Were  strewed  upon  the  unmown  grass,  or  lay 
Upon  the  moss-grown  walks,  their  owners  gone. 
The  scene  was  sadness,  the  remembrance  sweet. 
I  stood  and  gazed,  and  wished  that  by  a  word 
I  could  bring  back  the  days  and  forms  and  faces 
Linked  with  the  dreamy  scene  !     I  would  have  said, 
"  Come  back,  ye  lost  ones,  and  re-people  this 
Your  place  of  mirth  and  love,  and  let  all  be 
As  it  was  then  when  I  was  one  of  you  !  " 
But  what  were  words  or  wishes  ?     That  fair  past 
Lies  far  behind  me  ;  and  the  power  that  might 
Take  me  to  it  or  bring  it  back  to  me 
Is  not  in  angel  or  in  man.     In  fancy 
I  can  be  there  again,  and  light  up  all 
With  recollections  which  bring  only  tears. 
But  the  bright  joy,  the  laughter  and  the  song, 
The  busy  feet,  the  lips  of  love,  the  eyes 
From  which  time's  future  was  shut  out,  to  which 
Life  was  one  long  glad  present  and  no  more, — 
I  have  no  power  to  make  them  what  they  are  not, 
No  spell  to  bring  the  dreams  of  fancy  true. 

*  Life  goes  and  comes  not ;  so  I  thought  and  said. 
Joy  ebbs,  but  flows  not ;  how  shall  I  secure 
The  joy  that  never  ebbs,  the  life  that  ne'er 
Departs,  abiding  like  the  constant  sky 
Or  everlasting  hills  ?     I  must  be  filled 
Out  of  a  fountain  which  is  always  full  ; 
So  shall  my  life  be  life  indeed,  my  joy 


90  MY  OLD  LETTERS.         [line  241. 

Be  deep  and  tideless.     Poor,  I  knit  myself 
To  the  eternal  treasure ;  weak,  I  bind  myself 
To  the  eternal  strength  ;  imperfect,  I 
Put  on  divine  perfection  ;  steeped  in  evil, 
I  clasp  the  eternal  goodness  ;  sad  and  empty, 
I  claim  the  fulness  and  the  joy  which  from 
The  heaven  of  heavens  have  visited  this  earth, 
That  men  might  be  as  God,  and  earth  as  heaven. 

4 1  seemed  to  see,  on  one  hand  and  the  other, 
The  double  infinite,  far  spread  and  dim, 
The  two  eternities  of  time  and  space, — 
So  like  each  other,  yet  so  diverse  too ; 
So  simple,  and  yet  so  inscrutable. 
I  but  a  speck  between  them,  yet  as  great, 
Nay,  greater  sure  than  both  of  them  ;  to  me 
Their  vastness  does  belong  ;  and  I  must  know 
What  all  that  vastness  is  to  be  to  me, — 
Riches  or  want,  the  famine  or  the  feast  ? 
Is  it  to  be  a  living  on  and  on, 
As  I  do  now,  in  weakness  and  in  change, — 
Perpetual  climbing  of  these  splintered  hills, 
And  yet  no  summit  reached,  no  resting-place, 
When  time's  rough  work  is  done,  and  the  tall  shadows 
Tell  of  the  setting  of  life's  latest  sun  ? 
Perpetual  drifting  thro'  these  sullen  seas, 
Without  an  anchorage  or  haven  in  view  ? 
The  always  seeking  and  the  never  finding ; 
The  daily  strife  with  evil  and  with  pain  ; 
The  hope,  the  failure,  and  the  broken  heart  ? 

'  So  did  I  muse,  still  groping  wearily, 
Till  through  the  mist  the  true  sweet  morning  broke  ; 


line  272.]  BOOK  IV.  91 

Soft  light  from  a  new  sun  beyond  these  hills 
Stole  down  upon  me,  and  the  darkness  fled. 
Beneath  the  wing  of  Him  to  whom  alone 
These  infinites  belong  with  all  their  treasures, 
I  found  myself; — and  all  these  riches  mine. 

1  For  weakness  is  the  heritage  of  man  ; 
He  is,  and  is  not.     Tho'  he  fain  would  be 
King  of  an  empire  that  he  cannot  rule, 
Lord  of  a  heritage  no  part  of  which 
Will  do  him  homage  or  obey  his  will. 
The  outgrowth  of  his  best-thought  plans  is  not 
What  he  had  purposed  ;  'tis  the  indirect, 
The  unpurposed  issues  of  each  change  or  motion 
That  are  the  mightiest  and  the  most  enduring. 
The  helm  remonstrates  with  the  pilot,  thwarts 
The  wisest  steerage  ;  thus  man's  master-strokes 
Are  oft  his  follies, — in  the  dark  he  moves, 
Even  when  he  seems  the  most  to  move  in  light. 

'  There  once  upon  the  earth  was  One  by  whom 
Great  things  were  done  :  it  seemed  as  if  His  hand 
Were  framed  to  wield  the  sceptre  of  the  world, 
And  stay  the  anarchy  which  long  had  made 
This  earth  a  waste.     He  bade  the  breeze  be  still, 
And  it  was  calm  ;  he  seized  the  robber  Death 
When  on  his  way  to  hide  his  spoil,  where  Nain 
Looks  out  on  Esdraelon's  plain,  and  up 
Old  Nazareth's  brown  hills,  and  with  a  word 
Compelled  him  to  gave  back  the  widow's  treasure ; 
He  plucked  the  demon  from  the  tortured  soul 
Of  him  who  wandered  'mid  Gadara's  tombs  ; 
He  poured  His  light  into  the  darkened  eye, 


92  MY  OLD  LETTERS.         [line  303 

And  sounds,  before  unheard,  into  the  ear ; 

He  smoothed  the  writhing  wave,  and  bade  the  storm 

Lie  down  in  peace;  He  touched  the  burning  hand 

Of  fever,  and  the  blood  once  more  ran  cool  ; 

He  went  in  weakness  to  the  Roman  cross, 

And  from  the  tree  of  blood  where  He  was  nailed 

Returned  to  Paradise,  and  took  with  Him 

The  robber  at  His  side  ;  into  the  home 

Of  death  He  calmly  entered,  and  came  forth 

In  triumph, — every  foe  beneath  His  feet. 

1  His  will  was  all-constraining  law;  His  look, 
Like  light,  was  silent  power  ;  His  words  contained 
Divine  omnipotence.     But  man's  poor  will, 
Even  at  its  strongest,  what  is  it  on  earth  ? 
What  can  his  words  effect  ?     Come,  let  me  try. 
Silence,  hoarse  ocean  !     Let  me  muse  in  peace, 
Unruffled  by  the  stormy  dissonance, 
The  jar  of  battling  billows  round  this  rock  ; 
Silence,  dark  ocean  !  once  again  I  say. 
It  hears  not,  and  my  passionate  words  are  vain  ; 
My  will,  my  power,  my  reason  profit  nought 
'Gainst  that  which  has  no  reason,  power,  nor  will. 
I  cannot  calm  one  wave,  nor  speak  to  rest 
One  ripple  yonder  or  one  eddy  here. 
I  have  no  power  o'er  sea  or  slenderer  air, 
Save  when  I  set  them  one  against  the  other  ; 
Then  I  divide  and  conquer  ;  without  that, 
I  am  as  helpless  as  a  new-born  child. 
Yet  I  have  soul,  and  these  are  soulless  all : 
Dead  nature  mocks  the  living.     "  Peace,  be  still !  " 
From  man  is  but  a  breath.     That  breeze  which  goes 


line  334]  BOOK  IV.  93 

We  know  not  whither,  and  which  came  to  us 
We  know  not  whence,  is  stronger  than  the  strong. 
Man  speaks  in  vain.     He  is,  and  yet  he  is  not 
Monarch  of  nature.     There  is  still  behind, 
Innate,  invisible,  and  uncontrolled, 
A  something  mightier  than  a  human  will, 
A  something  farther  down  or  higher  up 
Than  man  or  chance  or  nature's  ancient  forms. 
The  laws  of  restoration  or  of  ruin, 
Of  living  and  of  dying,  are  too  simple, 
Yet  too  imperious  and  inexorable, 
Too  self-executive  and  too  resistless, 
To  have  come  forth  from  earthly  parliament ; 
Untainted  with  the  feebleness  of  man, 
They  each  go  out  to  do  the  work  of  God, 
And  with  authority  to  speak  His  will ; 
For  deep  within  the  being  of  those  things 
Which  we  call  laws  there  is  contained  a  power, 
A  living  power,  that  shows  all  Godhead  near. 
'  Who  spiked  the  royal  Andes,  buckled  on 
Their  brigandines  of  snow  ?     Who  called  the  stream 
From  under  the  deep  glacier,  bade  it  flash 
From  the  lone  rock-clift  to  the  thirsty  plain  ? 
Who  tinted  sky  and  sea  with  the  one  blue 
That  maketh  both  so  passing  beautiful, — 
The  upper  hyaline, — of  the  two  fair 
The  fairer  and  the  calmer, — far  beyond 
The  reach  of  storm  to  ruffle  or  to  stain ; 
The  lower  hyaline  so  vast,  yet  oft 
Troubled  and  broken  by  the  unbridled  gale  ? 
Who  lavishes  the  gold  of  daily  noon, 


o4  MY  OLD  LETTERS.         [line  365. 

Or  showers  the  silver  rain  of  brilliant  night  ? 
Who  bids  the  tides  with  soft  and  measured  tread 
Keep  step  to  the  mild  music  of  the  moon  ? 
Who  lays  the  earth  down  to  her  winter  sleep, 
And  wakes  her  up  again  when  April  comes  ? 
Who  leads  the  sea-bird  o'er  the  autumn  main, 
And  brings  it  back  when  summer  warms  the  wave  ? 
Instinct  with  life,  beyond  what  man  has  dreamed, 
Each  statute  does  its  office,  sure  and  true, 
As  if  an  angel  dwelt  in  it  unseen. 
There  is  no  feebleness  nor  failure  in  it, 
And  ages  cannot  make  it  obsolete. 
It  was,  it  is,  it  shall  be,  until  He 
Who  made  it  law  and  filled  it  with  His  life 
Shall  cancel  it,  or  with  a  higher  law 
Supplant  it  in  the  wisdom  of  His  will. 

4  The  laws  of  this  old  universe  of  ours 
I  cannot  make  or  unmake  ;  each  of  them 
Is  far  beyond  me  in  its  energy 
For  good  or  ill  ;  and  if  I  cannot  say 
To  death,  Give  up  thy  prey,  nor  to  the  grave, 
Restore  thy  captive  dust  ;  to  winter,  Go, 
And  let  sweet  spring  return  ;  to  the  east  wind,  Leave, 
And  let  the  bland  south  breathe  with  healing  balm  ; 
To  the  May-rose,  Bloom  round  the  golden  year  ; 
To  the  warm  leaf,  Heed  not  October's  frost ; 
To  this  depressive  heartache,  Pain  me  not  ; 
To  the  old  smile,  Come  back  to  faded  lips  ; 
To  love's  lost  lustre,  Re-illume  the  eye 
That  death  has  dimmed  :  if  I  am  impotent 
Amid  this  network  vast  of  living  law, 


line  396.]  BOOK  IV.  95 

I  must  strike  friendship  with  it,  that  the  love, 

The  wisdom,  and  the  power  which  dwell  in  it 

May  side  with  me  and  bear  me  nobly  through. 

All  law  must  be  upon  my  side,  or  else 

I  must  do  battle  with  the  universe, 

With  every  atom  of  it  for  my  foe. 

Law  is  the  utterance  of  potent  will, 

Holy  and  wise  and  loving.     With  this  will, 

This  royal  will,  my  will  must  be  at  one, 

Or  else  I  sink,  without  a  hope  of  rising, 

My  being  all  undone,  and  I  a  waif 

Or  wandering  leaf  on  some  deserted  shore, 

Tossed  from  the  sand  to  the  cold  wave,  and  from 

The  wave  to  the  unsympathizing  sand. 

1 0  sound  and  shape  and  colour !  what  were  earth 
Without  your  harmonies  ?     All  life  and  love 
Are  in  you,  and  without  you  all  is  chaos. 
In  you  I  see  what  law  is,  and  how  law 
Pervades  all  being,  sweetly  permeates 
All  creaturehood,  the  lifeless  and  the  living. 
Yon  ocean,  as  it  smooths  itself  to  rest 
When  suns  are  sinking  o'er  its  golden  brow, 
Or  as  it  gathers  round  it  its  green  waves, 
Like  a  rich  mantle  studded  o'er  with  pearls, 
When  storms  are  rising,  bends  in  matchless  curves, 
And  brightens  in  each  colour  of  the  bow. 
The  air,  the  solid  earth,  the  delicate  sunbeam 
Contain  your  riches,  and  each  day  unfold  them. 
Hue,  beauty,  melody,  thus  deeply  stored, 
Come  forth  in  wide  profusion  without  end, 
Some  bidden,  some  unbid,  by  human  skill. 


96  MY  OLD  LETTERS.         [line  427. 

I  The  law  that  does  or  undoes  is  beyond 
The  present  sovereignty  of  creaturehood. 
Hereafter  human  will  shall  be  a  power, 
Like  His  who  made  it  what  it  is  ;  and  then 
Each  mute  volition  of  the  will  may  be 

Of  all  earth's  finite  potencies  the  most 
Potent  and  swift.     But  now  the  will  is  nought ; 
Powerless  as  childhood  ;  nature  owns  it  not ; 
Dead  matter  mocks  its  bidding  ;  death  and  life 
Alike  refuse  it  love  or  reverence. 

I I  would  go  out  beyond  this  narrow  cage 
Of  individual  being,  and  look  round 

Upon  the  many-peopled  world  of  men, 

For  self  is  narrow  and  the  world  is  broad  ; 

Small  is  the  drop,  the  ocean  infinite : 

Part  of  that  marvellous  human  sea  am  I, 

A  drop,  a  wave,  a  fragment  of  its  foam. 

To  me  all  men  belong,  and  I  to  all. 

This  earth  is  every  man's  ;  this  earth  is  mine : 

Its  many-storied  nations,  far  and  near ; 

Its  subtleties  of  mind  and  will  and  heart  ; 

Its  thoughts  and  dreams  and  fantasies,  the  true 

Or  false  ;  its  tides,  its  tempests,  and  its  calms ; 

The  living  multitudes  that  move  across 

Its  plains,  or  crowd  its  ever-seething  cities, — 

Offspring  and  workmanship  of  one  great  Father, 

Vessels  of  noble  measure,  clay  or  gold, 

Made  to  contain  all  sorrow  or  all  joy, 

And  filled  alternately  with  either,  as 

The  bitter  or  the  sweet  of  time  distils 

Prom  the  events  of  each  day's  changing  hours. 


line  458.]  BOOK  IV.  97 

Each  life  a  treasure-house  of  hopes  and  fears, 
A  garden  crowded  o'er  with  weeds  and  flowers, 
A  chamber  with  dissolving  views  all  round, 
A  great  existence,  whose  capacities 
Are  beyond  measure  and  conception  vast, 
Each  in  itself  an  immortality. 

'  I  would  shut  out  this  little  life  of  mine, 
Or  see  it  as  a  leaf  on  Time's  one  tree, 
A  portion  of  the  awful  universe. 
I  am  but  one  of  myriads,  who  have  all 
A  life  to  live  under  the  common  sky, 
As  pregnant  with  a  hidden  destiny, 
As  great  and  full  of  meaning  as  my  own. 

1  Upon  this  turf  I  would  sit  down,  and  feel 
The  silent  benedictions  of  the  clouds 
Descending  softly  on  our  summer  tilth. 
The  breath  of  the  bright  wind  goes  by  in  balm, 
Fondling  the  forest-leaves,  and  from  the  pines 
Bringing  mysterious  odours  never  stale  ; 
The  light  mists  flit  thro'  the  fair  sky  like  dreams, 
And  every  bird  is  at  its  height  of  song. 
I  would  go  far  apart  from  cities,  where 
Life  with  its  thousand-tissued  nerves  and  sinews 
Works  at  high  pressure,  self  its  spring  and  aim. 
Too  steep  the  gradients  of  this  headlong  age, 
Too  sharp  its  curves  for  safety  or  for  strength, 
Too  swift  the  motion,  and  too  reckless  of 
Or  law  or  life :  so  said  I  to  myself, 
As,  looking  down  upon  the  smoke  and  fire 
Of  forges  clouding  the  clear  sky  with  gloom, 
I  heard  the  sigh  and  saw  the  sweat  of  toil. 


98  MY  OLD  LETTERS.  [line  489. 

1  Here,  beyond  sound  of  the  tumultuous  street, 
That  knows  no  rest,  I  muse  upon  the  wrongs, 
The  sadnesses,  and  sins  that  shade  the  earth, 
And  make  us  weary  of  its  history  ; 
In  spirit  pondering  how  love  and  law, 
The  double  keystone  of  the  world's  strong  arch, 
Fast  crumbling  down,  may  be  upreared  again  ; 
Asking  what  means  the  age,  its  words  and  deeds, 
And  whither  it  is  drifting,  or  what  is 
Its  one  prevailing  spirit  ?     Is  it  not 
To  unitize,  but  not  to  unify  ? 
To  force  discordances  together,  leaving  out 
Their  most  essential  parts  or  truths,  and  then 
To  call  it  universal  harmony  ? 
To  give  self-will  its  widest,  largest  scope  ? 
To  level  earth's  old  inequalities 
Of  matter  and  of  men,  and  roll  them  out 
Into  a  plain,  monotonous  and  vast, 
According  to  its  thoughts  of  rank  and  right  ? 
Destructive  not  constructive  in  its  aims, 
It  breaks  the  great  humanity  in  pieces 
Which  God  created  a  cohesive  whole. 
But  re-cementeth  not  its  shattered  parts  ; 
It  makes  each  man  yet  more  and  more  a  unit, 
A  separate  atom  of  mortality, 
Knit  to  no  fellow,  and  existing  only 
For  self,  and  for  some  narrow  circle  round  him, 
A  solitary  sand-grain,  wearing  down 
To  less  and  less  as  the  sharp  sea-wind  stirs  it. 

1  This  is  the  day  of  overthrow  :  I  see 
The  nations  ground  to  pieces,  and  the  crowns 


line  520.]  BOOK  IV.  99 

All  melted  down,  the  purple  torn  to  shreds. 

The  chrysm  of  ancient  royalty  is  drained, 

Each  fragrant  drop  exhausted,  not  to  be 

Replenished  till  the  great  anointing  comes 

Of  the  new  dynasty,  which  all  the  earth, 

Weary  with  endless  change,  shall  gladly  own. 

The  tempest  has  gone  out,  and  the  fixed  earth 

Rocks  to  its  centre.     The  uplifted  axe 

Is  brandished  everywhere,  and  does  its  work. 

The  sword  has  left  its  scabbard,  and  will  not 

Return  to  it  until  its  blade  is  dim. 

Strike,  thou   blind  sword, — strike  quick,  and  do  thy 

work  ; 
Level  alike  the  evil  and  the  good, — 
The  day  of  the  upbuilding  draweth  nigh. 
Earth  has  been  long  unjudged,  He  comes  to  judge  ; 
Earth  has  been  long  misruled,  He  comes  to  rule. 

1  Error  and  truth  are  now  at  last  alive, 
Both  putting  on  their  armour  and  their  strength. 
Their  day  of  dormancy  is  past ;  they  raise 
Themselves  to  their  full  height,  and  face  to  face 
Equip  themselves  for  battle  and  for  work. 
But  of  that  work  and  battle  who  can  tell 
The  issues  ? — who  forecast  the  fears  and  hopes, 
The  weariness,  the  wounds,  the  broken  hearts, 
The  passion,  and  the  folly,  and  the  sin, 
That  shall  fill  up  our  human  history, 
As  field  on  field  is  fought,  and  lost,  and  won, 
As  ruin  spreads  itself  abroad  o'er  earth  ? 
For  living  truth  and  living  error  oft 
Work  (as  they  go  upon  their  earnest  way 


ioo  MY  OLD  LETTERS.  [line  550. 

All  thro'  the  ages)  similar  effects 
Of  demolition  and  commotion  dire. 

'  Asleep,  the  warrior  wins  no  victory, 
But  is  led  captive  in  ignoble  chains ; 
The  drowsy  sentinel  betrays  the  fort : 
So  sleeping  truth  (and  often  has  it  slept) 
Invites  defeat  and  wins  the  coward's  shame. 
Asleep,  the  serpent  is  innocuous 
As  the  young  lamb  ;  awake,  it  wounds  and  slays  : 
So  sleeping  error  seems  to  unskilled  eyes 
Harmless,  nay,  beautiful,  no  thing  of  fear  ; 
Like  the  coiled  basilisk,  it  spreadeth  out 
Its  glowing  links,  alluring  all  who  gaze, — 
Then  wakes,  and  with  its  mortal  poison  stings. 

'  The  battle  of  two  wills  is  useless  strife, 
Ambitious  wrestling  for  the  mastery, 
Whose  course  is  havoc,  and  whose  end  is  hate. 
The  battle  of  two  minds  is  noble  war, 
Whose  end  is  truth,  whose  trophies  peace  and  love. 

'Day  fights  with  night,  and  night  contends  with 
day; 
Each  is  alternate  victor  ;  each  has  won, 
And  each  has  lost.     No  trophy  crowns  the  brow 
Of  the  victorious  host.     So  would  I  not 
That  such,  my  friend,  should  be  thy  life-long  war  ; 
Half  shame,  half  glory.     'Tis  to  him  that  conquers 
The  crown  belongs  ;  fight  on  and  slack  not  ; 
The  strife  is  sore,  but  the  reward  is  bright. 
Wreathe  not  thy  sword  with  roses  ;  let  the  edge 
Be  bare  and  penetrating  ;  double  up 
The  well-strung  bow,  and  let  the  shaft  go  free, 


line  58a]  BOOK  IV.  101 

Like  the  white  lightning  from  the  ragged  cloud, 
Pregnant  with  fire.     Strike  home,  and  hew  thy  way 
Thro'  the  thick  hosts  of  evil ;  or  be  what 
The  old  Greek  called  the  warrior,  the  spear-anvil, 
Calm  mid  the  raining  dart-shower  ;  so  shalt  thou 
Do  thy  one  work,  which  thou  alone  canst  do, — 
Win  the  one  battle  thou  alone  canst  win. 
*  Men  quarrel,  and  then  seek  to  justify 
Their  variance,  and  each  taunts  the  other  with 
"  'Twas  you  began  it  all ; "  the  weaker  side, 
However  just  and  honest,  must  go  down  : 
The  pitcher  strikes  the  stone,  the  stone  the  pitcher, 
It  boots  not  which,  the  pitcher  goes  to  pieces. 
Might  knows  not  right,  and  seldom  have  the  many 
Been  generous  to  the  few.     When  did  the  wolf 
Pity  the  lamb,  or  when  the  kestrel  stretch 
Its  wings  above  the  dove  save  to  devour  ? 
"  Woe  to  the  vanquished  "  is  the  history 
Of  human  warfare  here  ;  revenge  and  power 
Are  not  for  man.     With  neither  can  he  be 
Entrusted  for  a  day  ;  and  least  with  power. 
Stronger  than  love  of  fame  or  love  of  woman 
Is  love  of  power, — power  o'er  our  fellow-men  ; 
And  power  intoxicates,  but  most  of  all 
Power  spiritual,  rule  over  souls,  by  what 
Soft  name  we  please  to  call  it.     The  ideal 
Authority,  like  that  of  God,  the  power 
To  bless,  still  more  the  power  to  curse, 
Whether  thro'  priestly  touch,  or  magic  rite, 
Or  awful  voice,  how  coveted  by  man  ! 
This  double  spur,  how  it  has  pricked  ambition 


102  MY  OLD  LETTERS.  [line  6ii 

On  and  still  on,  remorselessly  beneath 
Its  iron  hoof  all  truth  and  charity 
To  trample  down,  crushing  the  noble  will, 
The  tender  conscience,  and  the  loving  heart. 
Woe  to  the  weak,  has  been  the  battle-cry. 

1  The  mystic  cup  of  power  inebriates  ; 
And  he  who  lacks  it  rests  not  till  he  finds  it, 
He  who  has  got  it  thirsts  for  more  and  more. 
Woe  to  the  man  who  throws  himself  between 
Ambition  and  its  object ;  sword  and  fire 
(If  sword  and  fire  be  weapons  of  the  age  ; 
If  not,  some  sure  and  palpable  revenge) 
Shall  strike  him  down  and  see  him  vilely  laid, 
Broken  in  reputation  and  in  heart, 
A  victim  to  the  hungry  lust  of  power. 

1  But  shall  I  thus  forecast  the  day  of  evil, 
When  every  lip  beside  me  whispers  peace, 
When  every  lyre  is  strung  to  notes  of  triumph, 
And  all  the  prophets  of  the  earth  foresing 
The  coming  progress  ?     When  the  heavens  are  clear, 
And  the  bright  planet  of  humanity 
Is  in  the  ascendant,  shall  I  dare  to  speak 
Of  lurking  thunder  ?     Yet  can  I  forget 
That  the  long  calm  is  parent  of  the  storm  ? 
In  the  clear  sky  the  thunderbolt  is  forged, 
And  thro'  the  silent  air  on  silent  wing 
The  eagle  swoops  to  seize  his  far-seen  prey : 
So  bursts  the  last  dread  hurricane  upon 
The  sons  of  men,  when  all  is  mirth  and  song. 
The  wildest,  widest  storm  these  eyes  have  seen 
Was  once  at  dawn,  after  a  tranquil  night, 


line  642.]  BOOK  IV.  103 

When  not  a  whisper  broke  the  breathless  air, 

To  speak  of  peril  or  betray  the  foe. 

Ocean  was  still  in  its  serenest  sleep, 

The  slow  wave's  sigh  swept  round  the  curving  strand, 

When,  as  from  ambush,  sprang  the  ragged  cloud, 

Startling  the  sea-bird  with  its  sudden  gloom. 

The  lightning,  like  a  sword  of  sinuous  fire, 

Leaped  from  its  scabbard,  scourging  earth  and  sea, 

Seaming  the  cliff,  sinking  the  helpless  barque, 

Filling  the  vacant  sky  with  lurid  light, 

Till  the  broad  billows  glowed,  one  scroll  of  flame. 

The  red  gale  rode  the  ocean,  rushed  across 

The  writhing  foam,  breasting  the  fretful  surf, 

Flushed  with  the  splendour  of  the  tremulous  bolt, 

That  went  and  came,  like  living  minister 

Of  pent-up  anger,  from  the  solemn  heavens. 

The  thunder,  shouting  from  the  stedfast  rocks, 

And  sweeping  round  the  concave  of  the  hills 

Whose  sleep  it  had  awakened,  shook  the  shore. 

In  one  quick  moment  every  object  changed  ; 

Chaos  and  darkness  seemed  to  come  again, 

Deep  calling  unto  deep  with  sullen  throat, 

Like  minute-guns  at  Nature's  funeral. 

■  So  breaks  the  last  tornado  over  man, 
Disturbing  his  gay  dream  of  human  progress, 
And  levelling  the  tower  he  would  have  built 
To  scale  the  heavens  and  seat  humanity 
Upon  the  throne  of  God.     So,  when  he  thinks  not, 
The  desolation  cometh,  and  the  hope 
Sinks  like  the  sand-built  shieling  in  an  hour. 

'All  that  high  science,  soaring  to  the  sun, 


104  MY  OLD  LETTERS.  [line  673. 

Or  searching  the  profundities  beneath, — 

All  that  philosophy,  with  thoughtful  lip, 

Has  spoken  to  the  eager  sons  of  men, — 

All  that  bright  poesy,  adorning  fact 

Or  summoning  fiction  to  her  aid,  can  do, 

To  heal  earth's  sickness  or  to  soothe  her  fret, — 

All  that  fond  pleasure,  in  her  gayest  mood, 

Has  forged  to  fascinate  or  cheer  the  soul, — 

All  has  been  tried,  but  ever  tried  in  vain. 

These  are  but  anodynes,  whose  opiate-draught 

Lulls  for  a  moment  the  deep-seated  pain  ; 

They  bring  no  restoration  of  the  health, 

No  styptics  for  the  world's  still  bleeding  wounds. 

*  O  good  Samaritan,  draw  near  at  length 
(Levite  and  priest  have  passed  in  coldness  by), 
Come  with  thy  oil  and  wine  to  heal  and  cheer ! 
Humanity  lies  sick,  all  pierced  with  wounds, 
Bleeding  to  death  upon  the  rugged  road 
Of  this  strange  life,  and  thou  alone  canst  cure.' 

The  day  leans  down,  and  the  light  lessens  fast, 
The  mountains  into  shadows  melt  away ; 
Twilight  is  creeping  softly  o'er  the  shore 
And  winding  round  the  rocks.     We  anchor  here  ; 
For  the  great  currents  of  the  world  sweep  by, 
Too  strong  for  us  without  an  anchorage 
That  will  hold  out  against  both  tide  and  wind. 
Ofttimes,  I  know,  beneath  a  ruffled  surface 
Sleeps  the  deep  under-calm  ;  but  here,  beneath 
A  tranquil  face,  I  dread  the  under-storm. 

Time's  depths  are  now  behind  us,  and  our  skiff 


LINE703.]  BOOK  IV.  105 

Has  touched  the  shallows ;  we  let  down  the  lead, 

And  find  the  fathoms  few  ;  these  breakers  mark 

The  lessening  depths  ;  a  few  more  strokes,  and  then 

We  shall  be  resting  on  the  safe,  safe  shore, — 

The  peaceful  seaboard,  where  no  beacon-light 

Is  needed  to  protect  the  midnight  barque 

From  perilous  cliffs  ;  and  where  (thrice  happy  they  !  | 

So  many  of  the  loving  and  the  loved 

Have  landed  long  ago,  enskied  and  safe 

Beyond  mortality's  corroding  touch 

Or  death's  unsparing  sting  ;  rejoicing  now 

O'er  sorrows  past  and  glory  yet  to  come, 

And  in  the  new  and  never-ending  song 

Praising  the  love  that  steered  them  thro'  the  storm, — 

The  love  which,  sweeping  from  their  sky  the  clouds, 

Showed  them  afar  the  signal-star  of  dawn. 

Swiftly  we  steal  along  our  orbit  here, 
Moving,  and  yet  unconscious  of  the  motion. 
Earth  rushes  on  in  awful  haste  thro'  space, 
And  yet  no  sound  is  heard,  no  quivering  feet ; 
No  snowflake  drops  from  off  the  mountain-pine, 
No  dewdrop  trembles  on  the  slender  spray. 
Swiftness  is  silence,  planet-speed  is  dumb  ; 
Or  if  it  utter  sound  to  us,  it  is 
The  melody  of  motion  ;  not  a  jar 
Or  broken  note  in  its  perennial  song. 

So  shall  it  be  in  the  great  age  to  come, 
When  the  eternal  orbit,  not  of  earth, 
But  of  all  being,  shall  be  entered  on 
With  a  fresh  impulse  from  the  hand  that  gave 
Its  motion  to  the  universe  at  first, 


06  MY  OLD  LETTERS.  [line  734. 

As  from  the  throne  projected  into  space, 

All  weighed  and  measured  in  the  unerring  scale, 

Each  star  and  planet  took  its  separate  way, 

Timed  for  the  wondrous  journey,  which  with  all 

Dumb  nature's  swift  obedience  they  fulfil 

In  the  calm  willingness  of  happy  service, 

Which  knoweth  neither  murmur  nor  mistake. 

Content  to  do  our  work  and  battle  on 
In  midst  of  disappointment,  making  head 
Against  the  merciless  hosts  of  evil,  sure 
Of  victory  nowhere  now,  yet  ever  sure 
Of  victory  at  last,  tho'  knowing  not 
Or  how  or  when  that  triumph  is  to  come  ; 
Armed  only  with  the  weapons  forged  upon 
No  earthly  anvil,  by  no  mortal  hands, 
And  clad  in  armour  which  no  spear  can  pierce  ; 
True  to  our  Captain  and  our  colours,  here 
We  fight  the  battle  till  our  day  is  done, 
And  the  glad  trumpet  bids  us  quit  the  strife, 
One  against  many,  weary,  yet  full  of  hope. 

The  evening  brings  all  home.     For  that  we  wait, 
Which  is  at  once  our  evening  and  our  morn, 
The  end  of  evil  and  the  dawn  of  good. 
October  sheds  the  leaf  and  April  brings  it  ; 
So  one  flower  fadeth  and  another  springs  ; 
Earth  renovates  itself.     When  we  are  gone, 
Our  homes  will  not  be  vacant ;  and  the  crowds 
Will  swell  our  cities  as  when  we  were  there. 
Earth  liveth  on  and  on  amid  this  change, 
Or  with  us  or  without  us  to  the  end. 

That  end,  ah,  would  that  it  were  come  !    All  things 


line  765.]  BOOK  IV.  107 

Press  forward  to  it,  and  cry  out,  Delay  not ; 
For  hope  deferred  has  sickened  the  sad  heart, 
And  men  are  asking,  Shall  it  ever  come  ? 

Shake  down  your  leaves,  O  many-tinted  trees 
Of  dying  autumn  ;  let  the  forest  gale 
Of  the  unsparing  north  search  through  and  through 
Your  desolate  boughs,  and  heap  the  earth  with  sackcloth. 
Another  winter  soon  will  lie  behind  us, — 
One  winter  less  to  come  ere  the  long  spring 
Shall  o'er  us  shed  its  beauty  and  its  balm  ! 
Fling  down  your  stars,  O  skies  !     O  waiting  earth  ! 
Heave  with  thy  final  earthquake  ;  and,  O  sea ! 
Let  loose  thy  last  stern  tempest  for  the  day 
Of  nature's  shock,  above  us  and  beneath  ; 
Speed  on  Creation's  travail-throes,  from  which 
There  comes  at  last  the  perfect  and  the  fair. 


BOOK    V. 


1  You  crave  me  for  some  record  of  my  thoughts  ; 
You  give  me  yours,  and  ask  for  mine  again, — 
Some  transcript  of  my  musings,  day  by  day, 
While  seated  by  my  never-lonely  hearth 
In  these  sharp  weeks,  when  keen  December's  cold 
Chains  the  free  stream  and  whitens  field  and  hill, 
Covering  old  earth's  dead  face  as  with  a  veil 
Of  frozen  moonlight,  hiding  its  shut  eyes, 
And  shrouding  features  now  no  longer  fair.' 

So  writes  the  hand  of  old  companionship, 
And  so  I  read  the  page  that  now  folds  out, — 
The  thoughtful  page  of  a  most  classic  pen, 
Which  in  a  bolder  hand  would  soon  have  led 
Its  owner  into  fields  of  world-wide  fame. 

*  Men  and  their  words,  as  memory  may  serve, 
Strewed  over  years  long  past,  I  would  recall ; 
They  with    myself,   their   thoughts  with   mine   half- 
mingled, — 
Life  interwoven  with  life  and  thought  with  thought, 
Like  boughs  of  the  thick  forest.     One  I  knew, 
A  worshipper  of  shadows  from  his  youth, 
Who  walked  with  me  life's  path  for  many  a  year. 
He  loved  the  clouds  because  they  were  unreal ; 

108 


line  23.]  BOOK  V.  109 

He  followed  most  the  paths  which  led  to  nothing, 

And  which,  but  for  their  own  quaint  windings,  were 

Devoid  of  beauty  like  a  moorland  track. 

He  looked  into  the  mists  for  rainbow-hues 

That  seemed  to  be,  but  were  not ;  down  the  depths 

For  pearls  that  diver's  hand  could  never  grasp. 

Between  to-day's  pursuit  of  all  bright  things, 

And  cold  to-morrow's  disappointed  hopes, 

His  life  went  by  ;  yet  other  life  than  this 

To  wish  he  seemed  not.     Upon  air  he  fed, 

And  things  which  grew  of  air  ;  he  flung  away 

His  twoscore  years  of  prime,  and  left  behind 

Only  a  beacon,  not  a  monument. 

Gifts,  fortune,  friends,  he  had  upon  his  side ; 

But  what  were  willing  winds  and  waves  to  one 

Who  had  no  chart  to  steer  by,  and  no  haven  ? 

What  was  the  soul,  however  large,  to  one 

Who  never  looked  beyond  the  suns  of  time 

Save  in  sad  mockery,  to  dream  and  speak 

Of  the  unknown  and  the  unknowable  ; 

Whose  fancy  was  his  only  oracle  ; 

Who  could  buy  land  and  pleasure  at  his  will, 

Yet  slighted  that  which  silver  could  not  win, — 

The  true  imperishable  gladnesses 

Strewn  in  our  daily  paths  by  heavenly  hands, 

Free  as  the  general  air  or  common  sun  ? 

'  He  dreamed  and  doubted  ;  flung  belief  away, 
Then  took  it  to  his  bosom  ;  mused  and  wondered, 
Thinking  that  what  had  been  might  be  again, 
Might  be  for  ever.     "  Who  can  tell  ? "  he  said. 
"  Pluck  the  bright  day  while  yet  the  sunshine  lasts, 


i  io  MY  OLD  LETTERS.  [line  54. 

And  call  it  thine.     Belief  or  unbelief, 

What  are  they  ?     Only  the  unreal  words 

Of  spirits  groping  in  the  mist  for  what 

They  know  not.     Is  not  faith  a  sick  man's  dream  ? 

And  is  not  truth  a  thing  of  age  or  clime  ? 

And  is  not  joy  the  transitory  gleam 

Of  some  aberrant  meteor  on  its  way 

To  nothingness  ?     And  is  not  all  of  that 

Which  man  calls  life  a  vision  of  the  night  ? 

And  what  is  death  ?    The  exhalation  merely 

Of  midnight  mist,  or  fragment  of  a  cloud, 

On  which  some  moonshine  rested  for  an  hour." 

1  So  reasoned  he,  so  doubted,  and  so  died. 
His  life  was  wasted,  and  he  sowed  no  seed 
Which  might  spring  after  him  ;  the  world  was  not 
His  debtor  while  he  lived,  nor  when  he  died. 
His  is  a  grave  without  a  monument, 
And  no  one  has  been  glad  that  he  was  born. 
The  winds  were  ever  on  his  side,  and  yet 
He  moved  not  on,  but  lay  like  one  becalmed, 
Or  strayed  in  eddies,  narrower  or  more  wide, 
As  the  capricious  impulse  urged  him  on. 
There  was  a  needy  world  around  him,  yet 
Its  famished  spirit  was  not  fed  by  him. 
Sorrow  and  evil  dwelt  hard  by,  and  yet 
No  ray  from  him  e'er  lighted  up  a  soul, 
Or  made  the  world  less  dark  than  it  had  been. 
"  My  early  rising  will  not  raise  the  sun 
One  hour  the  sooner,"  he  was  wont  to  say 
As  he  lay  down  upon  his  bed  of  ease  ; 
And  yet,  in  the  sad  consciousness  of  life 


line  85.]  BOOK   V.  Ill 

Thus  gone  to  waste,  he  would  speak  out  at  times  ; 

"  The  fool  resolves  not  till  the  battle's  lost ; 

It  is  too  late  to  don  the  helmet  when 

The  head  is  struck  and  death  is  in  the  blow. 

Fools  at  the  end,  the  wise  at  the  beginning, 

Know  what  is  to  be  done  ;  the  wise  proceed 

Straightway  to  do  it,  in  the  face  of  storm 

Or  enemies  or  weariness  of  spirit, 

Heedless  of  failure  upon  failure,  still 

Bent  on  success  and  resolute  to  win. 

Fight  your  own  battle  ;  lean  on  none  but  God  ; 

Beware  of  allies  in  a  warfare  such 

As  that  to  which  thou  hast  been  born,  and  which, 

Or  well  or  ill,  must  be  fought  out  alone. 

No  sin  (so  says  the  proverb  of  the  East) 

That  is  persisted  in  is  small ;  no  sin 

Laid  at  God's  feet  remaineth  great  or  dark. 

Tempt  not  the  tempter  ;  he  is  near  enough 

Already  ;  bid  him  go  upon  his  way, 

And  leave  thee  to  pursue  thy  work  in  peace. 

Be  wise  in  time,  lest  on  your  tomb  be  carved, 

As  upon  mine,  the  words  that  warn, — TOO  LATE." ' 

Thus  writes  another,  chronicling  the  past : 
1  Your  old  friend  the  Beginner,  as  you  called  him, 
He  promised  fair  ;  none  fairer  ;  he  has  gone, 
And  left  no  mark.     Capricious  and  unstable, 
He  finished  nothing,  and  his  life  was  filled 
With  poor  abortions, — torsos, — hardly  that ; 
As  if  upon  each  marble  block  that  lay 
Around,  he  had  his  chisel  tried  in  vain. 


12  MY  OLD  LETTERS.  [line  115. 

'Tvvas  not  mere  fame  he  lost ;  that  was  not  much  : 
He  left  the  world  no  richer  than  he  found  it, 
And  passed  away  unmissed, — none  to  record 
His  birth  with  joy,  or,  visiting  his  tomb, 
In  love  to  say,  What  owe  I  not  to  him  ! 

1  He  left  the  harbour  to  go  down  at  sea, 
The  dull  wave  closing  over  him  unwept. 
He  started  on  the  race,  but  dropt  aside, 
Losing  both  goal  and  prize.     He  drew  the  bow 
Strongly  and  well ;  the  arrow  missed  the  white  ; 
In  fickle  haste  he  flung  away  the  bow, 
And  emptied  the  full  quiver  on  the  ground. 
Brilliant  and  sparkling,  but  unstable,  like 
A  fountain  playing  in  the  sunshine,  swayed 
Hither  and  thither  by  the  chafing  wind, 
Then  sinking  suddenly  to  nothingness, 
He  promised  brightness,  but  it  died  in  gloom. 
His  life  was  lived  in  vain  ;  at  every  point 
Unfinished  and  abortive,  broken  off 
Just  when  it  might  have  told  ;  begun  in  earnest, 
It  quickly  cooled,  as  if  the  fire  within 
Had  burned  itself  away  before  the  time. 

'Yet  find  I,  written  in  some  wakeful  hour, 
When  the  full  sense  of  what  he  might  have  been 
And  might  have  done  burst  in  upon  his  soul, 
Thoughts  such  as  these,  not  worthy  to  be  lost : 
"  All  things,  both  good  and  evil,  have  their  cycles — 
The  sickness  and  the  health,  the  calm,  the  storm, 
The  labour  and  the  rest ;  they  come  and  go 
In  tides,  alternating  their  flow  and  ebb  ; 
Not  like  the  river,  always  on  and  on. 


line  146.]  BOOK  V.  113 

Let  not  to-morrow  swallow  up  to-day. 

Too  late  to-night  the  skilled  physician  comes, 

To  call  back  life  that  left  at  early  morn. 

To-morrow's  calm  restoreth  not  the  wreck 

Of  yesterday;  nor  roots  itself  again 

The  uprooted  pine.     Then  on,  however  dark  ; 

The  undoing  is  beyond  us,  and  the  loss 

Is  loss  for  ever  ;  therefore  quarrel  not 

With  the  dead  past,  which  no  device  of  thine 

Can  bring  to  life  again,  but  fling  thyself 

Upon  the  future,  and  make  it  thine  own  ; 

Seize  for  thyself  its  unwrought  mines  of  gold  ; 

Let  not  the  past  be  father  of  the  future, 

But  live  as  thou  hast  never  lived  before ; 

So  shall  thy  poverty  be  turned  to  wealth. 

The  night  brings  back  the  stars  ;  the  wintry  frost 

Freshens  the  blood  ;  the  keen  gale  of  the  north, 

Tho'  blowing  over  miles  of  desolate  moor, 

Makes  the  pale  cheek  to  bloom,  and  bloom  again, 

When  softer  breezes  left  it  only  wan. 

Stumble  and  fall  not,  you  will  mend  your  pace ; 

Stumble  and  fall,  you  must  at  once  arise, 

Or  else  be  trodden  down  by  those  behind. 

Make  sure  of  every  footstep,  yet  remain  not 

Upon  the  ladder's  lowest  round,  but  rise, 

Rise  daily  ;  it  will  take  a  lifetime's  years 

To  reach  the  top.     Like  huntsman  of  the  rocks, 

Pursue  thy  prey,  and  know  what  thou  pursuest. 

Oft,  when  we  think  that  we  have  seized  the  quarry, 

'Tis  we  ourselves  are  caught.     Grasp  not  too  much, 

Lest  thou  lose  all.     Think  not  your  safety  lies 

H 


H4  MY  OLD  LETTERS.  [line  177. 

In  many  roads  ;  one  pathway  will  suffice 

Better  than  thousands,  if  so  be  it  lead 

To  the  one  city  whither  thou  wouldst  go. 

Tis  by  a  single,  sometimes  slender  thread, 

That  we  unwind  the  skein  ;  the  many  threads 

Do  but  entangle,  and  make  effort  vain. 

Who  strikes  the  naked  anvil  but  a  fool  ? 

Bring  out  the  glowing  iron,  lay  it  there, 

Then  strike  and  spare  not ;  so  thy  skilful  arm 

Shall  not  bring  down  the  steady  stroke  in  vain. 

Think  ere  thou  openest  thy  lips,  and  know 

Whither  thou  goest  ere  thou  tak'st  thy  staff. 

Life  is  no  venture,  and  that  soul  of  thine 

Was  not  created  to  be  flung  away, 

Or  spilled  like  water  on  the  absorbing  sand. 

Make  much  of  May  ;  husband  thy  summer  hours, 

And  lay  up  sunshine  for  the  day  of  frost. 

Winter  is  coming,  and  it  may  be  sharp  ; 

Its  icy  touch  will  freeze  thy  fervent  veins." 

*  Thus  wrote  he  down  at  times  his  thoughts,  like  one 
In  quest  of  goodness,  groping  for  the  day. 
He  saw  the  light,  and  yet  he  walked  not  in  it  ; 
He  saw  the  darkness,  yet  he  shunned  it  not : 
The  currents  of  the  world  rushed  by,  and  swept  him 
From  every  anchorage  far  out  to  sea. 

1  Another  college-friend  you  may  remember, 
In  threadbare  raiment  (for  with  shirt  of  ice 
Cold  poverty  had  girt  him),  but  with  mien 
Modest,  yet  dauntless  as  the  winter  oak 
That  breasts  the  gale  upon  the  battered  cliff. 


line  207.]  BOOK  V.  115 

His  lean  face  told  us  that  his  fare  was  scanty ; 

His  big  cloak  hid  the  poverty  beneath  ; 

His  dwelling  he  preferred  to  be  unknown, 

Save  to  the  few  who  loved  him  for  his  worth, 

And  whom  he  trusted  for  their  worth  again. 

His  books  were  old  and  torn,  save  when  a  friend 

Had  lovingly  but  secretly  supplied 

His  need.     November's  rain  fell  hardly  on  him, 

And  the  keen  March-breeze  struck  him  to  the  bone. 

His  midnight  lamp  was  ill  supplied  with  oil, 

And  even  that  stinted  store  was  dearly  bought 

With  scantier  meals.     His  winter  hearth  was  cold, 

The  sharp  wind  searched  his  attic  thro'  and  thro', 

And  the  snow  sifted  thro'  the  broken  panes 

Of  his  ill-lighted  chamber.     When  the  days 

Grew  warm  with  summer's  love  and  summer's  smile, 

He  sought  the  sunshine  of  the  southern  glen, 

That  won  him  with  its  silence  and  its  joy  ; 

Or  the  soft  shade  of  the  fresh-budding  fir 

Upon  the  ruddy  moorland,  where  the  lark 

Sung  its  delicious  song  to  the  clear  noon. 

For  he  loved  summer  with  a  passionate  heart, — 

Wept  when  it  ended,  joyed  when  it  began, 

And  sighed  when  sweet  June's  longest  evening  told 

That  the  dear  brightness  had  begun  to  wane. 

He  revelled  in  its  brilliance  ;  it  was  his, 

Poor  tho'  he  was,  and  he  could  have  it  all, 

Yet  no  one  be  the  poorer  for  his  wealth. 

His  mind  was  lofty,  and  his  soul  was  large ; 

In  person  comely,  and  in  manners  far 

Above  his  birth.     Refined  in  tone  and  thought 


n6  MY  OLD  LETTERS.         [line  238. 

By  nature  and  by  study,  he  won  hearts 
And  found  companionships.     The  honour  came 
He  did  not  seek  ;  but  more,  the  wisdom  came 
That  he  had  sought  so  fondly  and  so  well, — 
Wisdom,  the  fruit  of  self-denying  years 
And  studious  toil,  whose  ripe  abundance  filled 
His  eager  spirit  ;  and  with  it  there  came 
Eternal  wisdom,  such  as  He  alone 
Can  give  who  giveth  unupbraidingly 
And  with  a  generous  hand  to  all  who  ask, 
Filling  the  soul's  wide  vessel  to  the  full, 
And  mellowing  while  gladdening  all  the  life. 

*  Lifted  from  poverty,  he  sought  not  wealth, 
But  took  the  little  he  had  won,  and  went 
To  live  a  useful,  uneventful  life, 
Out  from  the  world's  great  city-heat,  and  from 
The  sweep  of  her  fierce  tempests,  which  strike  down 
The  sons  of  earth's  ambition,  who  seek  fame, 
And  power,  and  eminence,  at  cost  of  all 
The  calmnesses  and  charities  of  life. 

1  And  one  went  with  him  to  his  sweet  retreat, 
Whom  he  had  loved  and  sought,  but  loved  and  sought 
For  years  in  vain.     Her  friends  in  pride  had  said 
That  she  should  wed  herself  to  nobler  blood, 
And  she  had  yielded  to  their  pride  ;  yet  still 
Her  soul  was  his,  even  when  she  stood  aloof. 
And  she  was  worthy  of  his  lofty  spirit ; 
Nor  could  she  hide  from  him  the  secret  joy 
His  presence  gave,  even  when  her  words  were  cold. 
He  won  her  at  the  last,  with  all  her  worth, 
And  he  forgave  her  these  slow  years  of  pain, 


line  269.]  BOOK  V.  117 

In  which  she  loved  as  tho'  she  loved  him  not, — 
Forgave  her  for  her  beauty  and  her  love. 

■  The  freckled  sky  bent  mildly  over  them, 
The  sun  went  softly  thro'  the  snowy  clouds, 
The  scent  of  many  a  rose  was  in  the  air, 
The  west  wind  wooed  the  clover  in  its  bloom, 
And,  like  a  lover's  breath  upon  the  cheek, 
Made  each  rich  blossom  quiver  with  delight, 
Wandering  unbidden  o'er  the  glowing  heath, 
On  that  fair  noon  when  before  man  and  God 
They  vowed  the  holy  vow  that  made  them  one. 

1  'Twas  a  chill,  livid  eve  when  they  returned 
And  crossed  the  threshold  of  their  future  home. 
The  sky  looked  wan  and  weary,  and  the  gale, 
In  haste  to  strip  the  forest,  swept  along 
O'er  the  desponding  earth  ;  and  as  it  went, 
Smote  the  slow  pulses  of  the  shivering  sea, 
And  roused  them  to  the  tempest's  fever-heat. 
For  miles  along  the  level  sand,  the  surf 
Rose  like  a  silver  ledge  to  fringe  the  gloom  ; 
While  farther  out  the  breakers  foamed  and  fell, 
Their  long  grey  tresses  loosened  in  the  breeze, 
Deep  calling  unto  deep  in  tumult  wild. 
The  near  seemed  cheerless,  and  the  far  had  lost 
The  clear,  calm  outline  which  to  distance  gives 
Its  sweet  and  finished  loveliness  ;  the  clouds 
Seemed  mountains,  and  the  mountains  seemed  like 

clouds, 
So  mingled  and  confused  was  earth  with  heaven. 

1  M  Is  this  a  shadow,"  said  they  to  each  other, 
"  Even  now  begun  to  fall  upon  our  lot  ? 


n8  MY  OLD  LETTERS.         [line  299. 

Or  shall  we  set  the  noon  against  the  night, 
And  take  the  presage  from  the  former  ?     Or, 
Yet  better,  shall  we  fling  all  omens  off, 
And  look  above  the  darkness  and  the  light 
To  Him,  the  Guider  of  our  course,  with  whom 
Dwelleth  no  night,  and  into  whose  fair  heaven 
Clouds  cannot  come,  nor  tempest,  nor  the  bolt 
Of  the  capricious  lightning,  nor  the  chills 
Of  winter,  nor  the  tainted  breath  of  sickness, 
Nor  the  hot  tear,  nor  sigh  of  broken  heart, 
Nor  sin,  the  bitter  fountain-head  of  all 
The  ills  that  wander  o'er  this  helpless  earth  ? 

'  "  Then  on  we  move  ;  thro'  darkness  or  thro'  light, 
Thro'  the  thorn-thicket  or  the  garden-walk, 
O'er  the  rough  mountain  or  the  easy  plain, 
All  will  be  well.     The  tent  is  not  the  palace, 
The  desert  is  not  Eden  ;  but  the  love 
Which  fills  yon  heaven  is  ours  for  evermore, 
Shorter  or  longer  let  our  journey  be, 
O'er  every  scene  the  blessed  cross  sheds  day, 
And  love  is  leaning  o'er  us  from  the  height 
Of  the  invisible  heavens,  still  bidding  us 
Look  up  and  love,  look  up  and  taste  the  joy. 
Day  unto  day  is  uttering  happy  speech, 
Night  unto  night  revealeth  wisdom  there. 
The  cross  where  He,  the  Light  of  light,  once  hung, 
In  conflict  with  the  Prince  of  Darkness,  shines 
In  heavenly  gladness,  piercing  every  shade  ; 
From  it  distilleth  health,  and  up  from  it 
There  wells  the  water  of  immortal  life. 
Ours  be  the  faith  which  turns  all  ill  to  good  ! 


line  330.]  BOOK  V.  119 

Ours  the  quick  ear  that  can  take  in  far  music, 

And  learn  both  song  and  tune !     Ours  the  keen  eyes 

That  can  see  angels  where  no  others  can  ! 

Then  on  we  move,  to  face  each  coming  storm  ; 

Brief  is  the  day  of  tempests,  brief  the  age 

Of  ill,  the  end  of  which  is  endless  calm. 

Shall  He,  beneath  whose  everlasting  wing 

We  have  sought  shelter,  e'er  forget  us  ?     Yes  ; 

When  the  neglectful  sea  forgets  its  tides, 

Or  skies  grow  weary  of  their  glorious  stars, 

Or  the  sun  trips  in  mid-air, — rushes  off 

Into  the  distance  of  oblivious  space, — 

Then  we  may  be  forgotten  ;  nay,  not  then, 

Not  even  then  ; — let  all  the  universe 

Break  loose  or  crumble  into  ancient  dust, 

There  still  remains  the  constant  love  of  God. 

No  flux  of  tide  in  that  eternal  love  ; 

Always  the  same,  a  calm,  unchanging  sea, 

Which  never  knew  a  shipwreck  nor  a  storm." 

1  Two  tranquil  years   they  lived,  and  then   she 
passed 
To  be  with  Him  whom,  seeing  not,  she  loved  ; 
Leaving  behind  her  here  a  happy  child, 
Fair  as  her  mother,  and  as  full  of  love ; 
Who,  as  her  womanhood  came  on,  found  one 
Whose  heart  was  hers,  to  whom  she  gave  herself  ; 
And  for  a  season  sunshine  seemed  to  come 
Back  to  her  father's  dwelling  and  her  own. 
That  season  was  not  long  ;  the  cloud  returned, 
And  brought  with  it  a  double  grief  and  gloom  : 
Her  heart's  beloved  perished  in  the  deep  ; 


20  MY  OLD  LETTERS.        [line  360. 

She  pined,  and  followed  him  ;  one  child  she  left, 
Sole  prop  and  solace  of  the  aged  sire. 

'  Him  found  I  in  his  solitude, — the  friend 
Whose  worth  and  learning  we  had  ofttimes  proved 
In  other  days,  when  both  were  in  our  prime. 
He  told  me  all,  speaking  with  that  deep  calm 
Which   lengthened   sorrow   brings,    and   with  that 

tone 
Of  solemn  cheerfulness  oft  given  to  men 
Whose  days  are  closing,  and  who  know  that  soon 
They  shall  rejoin  the  lost,  o'ertaking  those 
Who  had  outstripped  them  in  the  race  of  time. 
"  Here  she  was  born,"  he  said,  "  my  child  of  hope, 
And  here  I  saw  her  die,  on  the  same  couch 
Where  she  who  bare  her  died,  long  years  before. 
This  is  her  child,  a  mother's  orphan  love, 
All  boyhood's  brightness  nestling  in  his  cheek. 
He  calls  me  father,  for  his  own  he  knew  not, 
Save  by  his  picture  yonder,  and  his  tomb 
In  that  green  hollow,  where  the  name, — no  more, — 
Is  cleanly  carved  on  the  enduring  stone. 
Mother  and  father,  sister,  brother,  all 
Am  I  to  him,  my  thrice-beloved  boy : 
Dear  for  thyself  art  thou,  thy  joyous  self, 
Staff  of  my  right  hand,  upon  which  my  age 
Leaneth  so  fondly  in  my  wanderings  here  ; 
Dear,  too,  for  her  that  bare  thee ;  all  her  face 
Mirrored  in  thine,  and  all  her  voice  in  thine 
Echoed  so  truly  ; — O  my  summer-rose, 
Which  the  cold  night-blast  struck  down  from  the  stem, 
Thou  art  not  here  to  shed  thy  fragrance  round ! 


line  390.]  BOOK  V.  121 

Thou,  the  bright  May-bud, — this,  the  glistening  dew- 
drop 
Which  thou  didst  clasp  within  thy  opening  folds. 

1  "You  see  her  tomb, — her  own, her  husband's  grave, 
In  the  low  nook  which  for  herself  she  chose, 
Hard  by  the  happy  streamlet,  and  as  far 
As  might  be  from  the  melancholy  sound 
Of  the  cold  sea,  beneath  whose  fatal  surge 
He  whom  she  loved,  and  on  whose  arm  she  leaned 
A  few  fair  years,  went  down,  when  with  brave  arm 
He  fought  the  foaming  breaker,  as  it  swept 
On  to  the  sinking  shell  of  the  strong  barque, 
Which  the  fierce  north  wind  flung  upon  the  rocks. 
To  the  wild  cry  of  shipwreck  quick  responding, 
He  braved  the  billow  in  its  strength,  and  led 
The  hope  forlorn  into  the  deadly  breach, 
And  in  that  ocean  found  an  early  grave. 
He  swam  for  life ;  the  stalwart  arm  struck  out, 
And  seemed  to  conquer  for  a  time ;  he  rose 
And  faced  the  storm  ;  but  the  resistless  wave 
Proved  stronger  than  his  arm,  and  bore  him  down. 
Flinging  upon  the  wreck  the  shorebound  line, 
He  sank,  and  rose  not ; — with  him  all  in  me 
That  we  call  life  went  down  and  disappeared. 

1 "  Unsympathizing  sea,  absorbing  man 
And  all  man's  sweetest  loves  and  tenderest  hopes 
In  thy  cold  gloom  ;  upon  thy  heartless  wave 
Hither  and  thither  tossing  in  thy  mirth 
The  corpse  of  age  or  smiling  infancy, 
Of  noble  youth  or  gentle  womanhood, 
To  fling  them  on  the  slippery  rock  afar. 


22  MY  OLD  LETTERS.         [line  420. 

'Unshrouded,  'mid  the  tangle  and  the  foam, 
And  sending  up  into  the  brooding  air 
The  mocking  laughter  of  thy  greedy  surge ! 
Ungracious  and  inexorable  sea ! 
Unlike  this  mother-earth,  which  giveth  back 
All  lovingly  the  sacred  seed  we  sow 
In  her  fond  bosom  thousand-thousand-fold, 
Thou  graspest  all,  but  thou  restorest  none ; 
Insatiable  in  thy  hunger,  in  thy  caves 
Far  underneath  the  tide  of  moving  green, 
Unfathomed  and  unvisited  of  man, 
Burying  them  deep,  without  a  monument 
Or  turf  to  mark  the  lone,  lone  place  of  love. 
Soon  shall  I  follow ;  life  to  me  no  more 
Is  life  upon  this  desolated  earth. 
'Tis  not  that  dying  sun  alone  that  haunts  me, 
As  o'er  yon  level  forest  he  goes  down, 
And  tells  me  that  another  day  is  gone  ; 
It  is  the  memory  of  suns  long  set, 
Linked  with  old  loves  and  joys,  with  looks  and  voices 
That  have  all  passed,  and  come  not  back  again, 
Or  only  come  in  visions  of  the  night, 
Like  the  lark's  song  heard  far  above  our  heads, 
As  from  an  unseen  lute  amid  the  clouds. 

1 "  Care  for  this  boy  when  I  am  gone,  and  may 
A  brighter  course  than  mine  to  him  be  given ! 
I  would  be  gone  ;  for  him  alone  I  live. 
Already  has  the  deep  home-sickness  come, 
Which  men  of  mountain-lands  are  said  to  feel 
In  exile,  when  the  visions  of  the  past 
Rise  up  to  view,  and  beckon  their  return. 


line  45i]  BOOK  V.  123 

God  makes  the  blind  bird's  nest,  the  proverb  says, 

And  I  am  blind  with  sorrow ;  so  to  Him 

And  to  His  Christ  I  do  commit  whate'er 

Or  long  or  short  remains  of  life  to  me. 

Care  for  the  boy,  my  friend,  when  I  am  gone. 

A  few  years  longer  than  myself,  perhaps, 

Thou  may'st  be  spared  ;  oh,  watch  his  sunbright  hours, 

That  no  polluting  shadow  dim  their  gold ; 

From  the  thick  evils  of  a  perilous  world 

Guard  thou  his  youth,  and  help  to  shape  his  course 

In  ways  of  uprightness  when  life  is  fresh 

And  flexible,  ere  conscience  has  been  seared 

And  the  heart  petrified  with  early  vice. 

Earth's  air  is  dull  and  damp  ;  it  suiteth  not 

The  tender  bud  or  the  new-opened  blossom. 

Its  summer's  sun  inebriates  the  soul, 

Its  winter's  chill  freezes  the  springs  of  faith, 

And  hard  it  is  in  such  ungenial  clime 

To  bring  to  ripeness  spring's  fair  promises. 

Oh,  teach  him  to  be  true  to  man  and  God  ; 

Set  his  face  stedfast  to  the  eternal  light, 

The  light  of  Him  who  dwelleth  in  the  light, 

And  with  whom  darkness  has  no  fellowship. 

Take  thou  the  helm,  and  teach  him  how  to  steer, 

To  trim  the  sail,  to  watch  both  tide  and  wind, 

Shunning  the  sand  and  rock,  with  pilot-skill 

Rounding  the  headlands  of  a  stormy  age, 

Marking  the  beacon  on  the  cliff  or  isle, 

By  no  false  light  misled  on  either  hand ; 

Pressing  with  straining  mast  and  swelling  sail, 

By  chart  and  compass,  thro'  time's  perilous  deep, 


24  MY  OLD  LETTERS.         [line  482. 

To  the  safe  shore  on  which  no  wreck  is  strewn, 

Nor  evil  enters  with  its  serpent-trail, 

Nor  sin  deforms,  but  righteousness  and  peace 

O'erflow  in  placid  fulness,  making  all 

Fair  beyond  thought,  as  in  time's  holy  dawn 

(Now  long  since  overcast),  when  the  first  sun 

Smiled  o'er  the  beauty  of  this  daedal  earth, 

And  laid  its  light  kiss  on  Armenian  snows." 

'Some  years   he  lived,  then   followed   those  he 
loved, 
And  sleeps  with  them  beneath  the  well-known  tomb. 
The  child  lives  on,  and  oft  his  boy-bright  eye 
Reads  the  dear  names  engraven  on  the  stone, 
And  then  looks  upward  to  the  peaceful  blue. 
What  he  may  be  when  I  am  gone  I  know  not, 
But  what  I  see  gives  hope  of  what  I  see  not : 
I  mark  the  gleam  of  the  true  life  within, 
Like  star  that  finds  its  way  thro'  broken  skies, 
Or  like  the  first  stroke  of  a  master-pencil 
Flung  on  a  virgin  canvas,  yet  to  be 
Spread  out  for  many  an  eye  to  gaze  upon, 
To  be  at  once  a  lesson  and  a  power. 

1  That  which  we  sow  is  the  corruptible  ; 
The  incorruptible  we  soon  shall  reap. 
'Tis  weakness  that  we  lay  beneath  the  turf ; 
The  strength  is  coming  in  the  day  of  strength, 
The  age  of  immortality  and  love. 
Man  measureth  the  known,  but  only  God 
Measures  the  unknown.     Man  amid  the  seen 
Maketh  his  dwelling  ;  'mid  the  unseen,  God. 


line  511.]  BOOK  V.  125 

Man  in  his  balances  the  present  weighs  ; 
The  future,  God,  in  more  unerring  scale. 
Man  needeth  for  his  path  the  constant  light, 
Or  else  he  stumbleth  ;  in  the  darkness,  God 
Moveth  in  majesty  as  in  the  light, 
Darkness  and  light  are  both  alike  to  Him. 
What  is  within  the  veil  to  Him  we  leave  ; 
It  will  be  fairer  than  what  here  we  see, 
It  will  be  more  enduring  than  the  past. 

*  Who  falleth  next  on  this  sad  battle-field 
Of  earth,  where  millions  have  already  fallen  ? 
Some  friend,  or  child,  or  brother,  then  myself ; 
Until  the  level  turf  with  myriad  mounds 
Is  heaving,  burdened  with  the  endless  slain  ! 
For  dust  we  are,  and  shall  to  dust  return. — 
O  winds  that  never  weep,  when  will  ye  blow, 
And  flowers  that  never  fade,  when  will  ye  spring  ? 
Suns  that  shall  never  scorch  nor  set,  when  shall 
Your  rising  come  ?     O  summer  of  the  living, 
When  shall  your  life-day  dawn  ?    Morn  without  clouds, 
Rich  with  the  freshness  of  celestial  dew, 
When  will  ye  light  up  these  cold  hills  of  time  ? 
O  healing  Spirit,  come !     There  is  no  health 
For  the  great  sickness  of  humanity 
But  in  thy  warm  breath,  thy  benignant  touch. 
Breathe  on  this  mortal  earth,  and  lay  thy  hand 
Upon  its  sick-beds  ;  light  up  faded  eyes  ; 
Pour  immortality  thro'  every  vein  ; 
Spoil  the  rank  graveyard  of  its  golden  dust, 
And  cover  the  dead  earth  with  holy  life. 
1  So  mused  I  as  I  left  my  friend's  abode, 


126  MY  OLD  LETTERS.         [line  542. 

Returning  homewards,  all  the  history 
Of  our  past  threescore  years  awaking  fresh 
To  memory,  and  calling  calmly  up 
Thought  upon  thought,  as  scene  on  scene  arose. 
1  They  are  not  silences  that  dwell  around  us 
Outside  the  curtain  of  this  noisy  earth, — 
Sorrowful  silences,  as  men  have  dreamed. 
The  universe  is  God's,  and  He  is  there, 
The  great  inhabitant  of  all  we  see, 
And  all  we  see  not ;  yet  Himself  distinct 
From  all  His  handiworks,  the  living  God, 
In  whom  we  live  and  move  and  have  our  being. 
The  spheres  are  there,  with  all  our  melodies  ; 
They  whom  we  loved  are  there ;  they  are  not  dead, 
But  gone  within  the  veil,  to  reappear 
When  evening  comes,  like  the  light-buried  stars. 
What  we  call  space  is  not  vacuity, 
Silent  and  cold,  like  a  forsaken  hall, 
Or  wilderness  untenanted  by  man. 
The  angels'  tents  are  there,  unseen  by  us, 
And  angels'  songs  are  sung,  by  us  unheard. 
The  past  does  not  absorb  us,  nor  destroy 
The  life  which  age  by  age  is  passing  in 
Within  its  gates  of  shadow  and  of  awe. 
We  live  upon  the  past,  and  that  which  we 
Call  death  becomes  our  life  ;  the  things  of  old 
Are  always  new,  yielding  to  us  each  day 
Their  never-ending  lessons  of  deep  truth. 
Its  strength  the  palm-tree  drinks  from  the  dry  sand, 
And  the  vine  feeds  on  ashes  ;  we  build  up 
Our  daily  being  out  of  that  which  was, 


line  573.]  BOOK  V.  127 

But  is  not, — things  and  men  of  other  times, 

The  ruins  of  old  shrines  and  palaces, 

The  habitations  of  the  ages  gone, 

Love's  relics,  friendship's  gifts,  the  faded  flowers 

That  when  they  perished  left  our  garden  bare. 

We  live  upon  the  dead,  and  we  in  turn 

Shall  yet  be  lived  upon  by  those  who  loved  us, 

When,  like  our  fathers,  we  have  shed  our  tears, 

And  done  our  work,  and  fought  the  fight  of  time 

'  O  fruitful  past !  exhaustless  treasure-house 
Of  untold  wealth  !  prolific  soil,  in  which 
The  present  sows  itself,  and  out  of  which 
There  comes  not  one  brief  harvest,  but  a  long 
And  blessed  reaping  for  the  sons  of  man  ! 
Much  has  the  present  hour  in  store  for  us 
Of  happy  wisdom,  gleaned  from  each  new  day, 
To  make  us  truer,  nobler,  holier  men. 
We  would  go  forth,  and  from  the  thriftless  air 
The  hoarded  sunshine  pluck  at  will ;  and  yet 
It  is  from  summers  long  since  out  of  sight, 
And  suns  long  set,  we  gather  truest  life. 
The  present  has  a  near  and  low  horizon  ; 
That  of  the  past  is  measureless.    The  world, 
The  busy  world,  that  lives  in  its  own  day, 
Lies  flat  upon  the  ground  and  sees  no  stars ; 
Its  face  is  downward,  and  it  clutches  fast 
The  golden  or  the  iron  bars  of  earth. 
We  would  look  out  upon  the  ages  gone, 
Dig  their  old  mines  for  treasure,  search  their  seas 
For  pearls  that  nowhere  else  on  earth  are  found. 
The  true  is  there,  and  even  the  fabulous, 


28  MY  OLD  LETTERS.  [line  604. 

Tho'  teeming  with  the  false  and  dark,  at  times 
Contains  the  true  ;  like  Scandinavian  woods, 
Where  iron  tales  were  told  from  iron  lips 
By  iron  men,  that  teach  nobility 
And  hardihood  of  spirit  to  our  sons. 

1  The  wise  man's  heritage  is  everywhere ; 
Nowhere  the  fool's,  tho'  half  a  realm  be  his. 
The  wise  man  gleans  in  every  field,  and  finds 
No  mine  exhausted,  no  truth  stale  or  poor. 
Honouring  the  tree,  tho'  lowly,  under  which 
His  father  and  his  father's  father  once 
Found  shelter,  he  sits  down  beneath  its  shade. 
For  old  men's  words  are  true,  he  says ;  old  thoughts 
Grow  milder  and  more  mellow  with  their  years, 
And  their  grey  hairs  are  comely ;  he  would  treat 
The  past  with  reverence,  yet  sifting  still 
The  evil  from  the  good,  and  wondering  when 
Truth,  now  half-hidden,  shall  spring  up  in  strength 
From  the  dull  soil,  and  spread  o'er  every  field. 
The  rude,  loquacious  present,  and  the  past, — 
The  tranquil  past, — how  different  in  their  mien 
And  their  instruction  !     Yet  how  well  we  know 
That  silent  lessons  root  themselves  the  deepest, 
And  bear  the  brightest  fruit. — The  file  of  time, 
Inaudible,  eats  thro'  earth's  iron  bars, 
Opening  the  dungeons  of  our  fettered  race  ; 
As  once  the  angel,  with  mysterious  touch, 
Threw  wide  the  gate,  and  bade  the  messenger 
Of  heavenly  truth  go  forth  in  liberty 
At  midnight  from  his  Syrian  prison-house, 
With,  "  Gird  thyself  and  bind  thy  sandals  on, 


line  635.]  BOOK  V.  129 

Fling  thy  cloak  round  thee,  up  and  follow  me." 

Yet  the  cells  close  again,  and  other  chains, 

Brighter  perhaps,  but  stronger,  bind  the  race. 

The  day  of  true  celestial  liberty, 

The  era  of  a  liberated  world, 

Of  chains  for  ever  broken,  has  not  come. 

The  sword  of  truth  with  its  mute  edge  hews  down 

The  falsehoods  of  the  ages  everywhere  ; 

Yet  still  they  rise  again.     The  old  soil,  still 

Fruitful  in  ill,  retains  its  poison-roots, 

And  yields  a  harvest  of  yet  deadlier  growth. 

1  And  yet  I  know  that  ill  shall  have  an  end, 
And  time's  disorder  into  order  rise. 
The  deluge  that  has  covered  this  fair  globe 
With  its  disastrous  waters  shall  ere  long 
Be  dried,  rolled  back  from  off  a  suffering  soil, 
And  pent  up  in  the  caverns  whence  it  came. 
These  sifting  winds  of  earth  shall  sink  in  balm  ; 
This  strife  of  nature  shall  at  length  be  still, 
The  storm-song  sink  into  a  dying  fall, 
And  the  chafed  air  breathe  only  summer-peace. 
All  life's  entangled  knots  unravelled  then  ; 
The  inky  stains,  in  millions  dropped  upon 
The  once  fair  page  of  this  unblemished  earth, 
Sponged  out  by  Him  who  made  it  fair  at  first ! 

'  Evil !  I  meet  thee  in  my  daily  walk  ; 
And  first  I  tremble  sorely ;  then  I  ask, 
"  But  whither  goest  thou  ?  "     Thou  answerest, 
"To  where  all  evil  ends,  all  sorrows  die." 
So  let  it  be.     But  yet  it  seems  as  if 
The  day  of  gladness  were  too  long  deferred. 


130  MY  OLD  LETTERS.         [line  666. 

1  Suns  of  the  past,  whose  settings  now  are  done, 
Shine  out  on  us  with  all  your  treasured  warmth 
And  ancient  grandeur,  as  when  ye  arose 
On  Eden  and  its  joys,  or  lighted  up 
The  peaks  of  Ararat,  or  shone  upon 
Shinar  and  Ur  and  Haran,  all  along 
The  pilgrim-life  of  the  believing  man, 
Who  went  where  the  great  Voice  commanded  him, 
Where  the  celestial  glory  guided  him, — 
He  knew  not  whither ;  or  as  when  ye  shone 
On  Zion  with  its  marble  palaces  ; 
Or  on  Moriah's  temple  blazing  full, 
In  the  rich  glow  of  Oriental  gold, 
Hour  after  hour  around  its  glowing  walls 
And  smoking  altar  ;  or  as  when  ye  saw 
The  Roman  firebrand  kindle  its  last  flames, 
The  Roman  battle-axe  come  thundering  down 
Upon  its  cedar-work,  till  all  was  ruin, — 
Gate,  wall,  and  rampart  flung  into  the  depths 
Of  the  dark  hollow  that  engirds  her  round, — 
The  smoking  ruin  bubbling  up  with  blood. 

*  Suns  of  the  past,  that  lighted  up  old  Troy, 
And  wreathed  fair  Ida  with  your  joyous  glow  ; 
And  gleamed  on  Salamis,  or  bronzed  the  Nile  ; 
And  struck  the  lyre  of  Memnon,  or  stole  thro' 
The  pillars  of  Palmyra,  and  blazed  o'er 
The  giant  gates  and  avenues  of  Thebes, 
Or  watched  the  rising  of  the  Pyramids, 
Or  chisellings  of  Assyrian  palaces 
And  the  great  idols  of  the  Nimrod  fanes  ; 
And  saw  Phoenician  Carthage  rise  and  fall, 


line  697.]  BOOK  V.  131 

And  Rome  ascend  her  ancient  seven-hilled  throne ; 

That  shone  upon  old  Britain's  sullen  wastes, 

And  Caledonian  forests,  ere  they  knew 

A  history,  and  stored  up  within  their  mines 

The  dormant  fire,  that  like  a  prisoned  spirit 

Was  to  awake  in  later  days,  and  make 

This  isle  the  wonder  of  an  envious  world. 

Suns  of  the  city  and  the  silent  waste  ! 

Suns  of  the  sea-swept  cliff  and  dew-bright  plain, 

That  gleam  along  the  river,  light  the  glen, 

Or  gild  the  ocean,  o'er  whose  ancient  face 

For  ages  ye  have  shone  in  calm  or  storm ! 

Suns  of  earth's  sapphire  roof,  beneath  whose  bend 

Time's  deeds  have  all  been  done,  time's  words  all  spoken, 

Time's  mighty  changes  wrought ! — I  turn  to  you, 

And  ask  you  to  reveal  the  hoarded  secrets, 

Evil  and  good,  that  ye  have  witnessed  here. 

1  Ye  cannot  tell  the  future,  nor  can  see 
Into  its  boundless  distances,  tho'  high 
Your  station  be  above  the  hills  of  earth 
And  clouds  of  time.     Yet,  as  I  look  on  you, 
I  muse  on  what  you  one  day  shall  behold 
Hereafter,  when  the  ages  shall  unroll 
The  long,  long  hidden  good  in  store  for  man, 
And  bid  creation  doff  its  withered  leaves 
To  clothe  itself  with  spring, — resplendent  spring, 
The  spring  of  heavenly  verdure,  holy  peace, 
All  purity,  all  beauty,  and  all  love. 

'  Then  heaven  has  come  to  earth,  and  earth  is  heaven  ; 
The  shadow  of  the  tomb  has  passed  away, 
And  all  is  life ;  each  mortal  mist  is  gone, 


32  MY  OLD  LETTERS.         [line  728. 

And  earth  is  fair  once  more  ;  death  is  dethroned, 
Its  sceptre  shivered,  and  itself  a  name 
Among  the  fallen  potentates  of  old, 
That  moulder  in  dishonoured  sepulchres, 
That  have  been,  and  yet  are  not,  nor  again 
Shall  ever  be.     The  breaker  up  of  love, 
The  sunderer  of  families,  the  fierce, 
Remorseless  foe  of  man  exists  no  more : 
The  spoiler  now  is  spoiled,  the  prison-house 
Is  emptied,  and  the  prisoners  go  forth 
With  song  and  joy  ;  the  long  captivity 
Is  now  avenged  ;  the  broken  heart  is  healed, 
The  tears  are  wiped,  the  age  of  light  begun. 

*  Sun  of  the  coming  age,  how  long  shall  these 
Deep  clouds  of  evil  that  pollute  our  sky 
Delay  thy  dawn  and  muffle  all  thy  beams  ? 
Rise  in  thy  strength,  and  bid  the  night  be  gone ; 
Go  forth  in  haste,  O  pure  and  perfect  Light, 
Do  battle  with  the  darkness  of  the  world, 
And  overcome  ;  rear  trophies  everywhere  ; 
Dissolve  the  dazzling  error ;  glorify 
The  truth,  and  send  it  forth  enrobed  in  power, 
To  do  its  work  among  the  sons  of  men. 
The  frost  of  unbelief  now  covers  earth, 
Whitens  its  fields  and  binds  its  joyous  streams, 
Sparkling,  yet,  in  that  very  sparkling,  cold. 
Shine  out,  and  with  thy  universal  warmth 
Melt  down  this  frozen  darkness,  dissipate 
Each  vapour  that  would  dim  the  eye,  O  Sun ! 
Bid  the  false  vanish,  and  the  true  appear. 

1  All  that  is  true  in  worship  must  have  root 


line  759-]  BOOK  V.  133 

In  truth,  eternal  truth,  and  not  in  dreams. 

All  that  is  real  in  service,  or  in  that 

Which  men  religion  call,  must  be  the  offspring 

Of  truth,  and  not  of  error  or  of  doubt 

For  he  who  deals  with  God  must  know  the  God 

To  whom  he  cometh,  and  must  know  the  way 

By  which  the  Holy  is  to  be  approached 

By  the  unholy,  or  for  prayer  or  praise. 

*  True  Light,  whose  place  of  dawn  shall  be  the  East, 
The  ancient  East,  old  birthplace  of  the  true, 
Array  thyself  in  majesty,  and  come  ! 
Out  from  fair  Salem's  rock-hewn  sepulchre 
Thou  comest  in  the  greatness  of  thy  strength 
And  brightness  of  Thy  beauty,  scattering  gloom 
And  pouring  out  Thy  gifts  of  peace.     Not  like 
That  which  so  fatally  once  issued  from 
The  fabled  casket  of  the  all-gifted  one, 
Filled  with  all  human  woes,  to  be  let  loose 
Upon  a  hapless  race  ;  but  like  the  sweetness 
Of  the  rare  spikenard-box  of  old,  once  broken 
To  anoint  the  Holy  One,  which  filled  the  room 
With  odour,  such  as  told  of  heaven  itself  ; — 
So  from  the  opened  sepulchre  come  forth, 
Fair  sun,  and  with  the  fragrance  hidden  there, 
Immortal,  irresistible,  divine, 
Breathe  o'er  this  sickly  soil,  and  sweeten  all 
Our  atmosphere  with  everlasting  health.' 


BOOK    VI, 


1 1  WAS  not  born  amid  the  beautiful ; 

I  am  no  dalesman,  child  of  rock  and  stream  ; 
Nor  have  I  lived  among  the  scenes  on  which 
The  eye  of  culture  rests.' — So  writes  another, 
Whose  noble  memory  is  fragrant  still. — 

I I  have  known  little  of  the  laughing  earth  ; 
My  way  has  been  amid  the  toils  of  life, 
Through  the  dun  smoke  of  furnaces,  and  sound 
Of  hammers  and  of  fire-blasts,  day  by  day. 
Scant  measure  of  the  golden  sun  these  eyes 
Have  seen,  and  seldom  has  the  song  of  birds 
Cheered  me  ;  the  music  of  the  merry  morn 
And  sorrow-sweetening  eve  have  not  been  mine; 
Not  mine  the  balm  of  garden  or  of  field, 

The  breath  of  waving  woods,  the  chant  of  streams  ; 

Not  mine  the  May-buds,  with  their  summer-eyes 

Bright  as  bright  starlets,  looking  up  to  heaven. 

A  shaded  world  I've  known;  and  the  dim  years 

Have  wandered  on  in  cold  monotony, 

Almost  from  childhood  ;  and  yet  I  have  felt 

A  heart  within  me  beating  warm  and  free, 

That  longed  to  get  outside  of  this  volcano, 

To  pierce  these  murky  wreaths  that  close  me  in, 

m 


line  24.]  BOOK  VI.  135 

And  see  the  beauty  of  the  world  without, 

Of  whose  fair  skies  so  many  lips  were  speaking. 

Free  blood  is  always  warm,  and  the  free  warmth 

Expands  our  being's  every  part,  and  is 

A  birthright  of  itself,  a  heritage 

Of  strength  and  greatness  to  the  common  soul, 

Of  which  it  was  not  othenvise  the  heir. 

Now  strong,  now  weak,  I  knew  myself  all  o'er  ; 

Now  flushed,  now  pale,  as  the  veins  filled  and  emptied, 

And  the  soul  ebbed  and  flowed,  immured  within, 

And  seeking  to  escape  its  prison-house. 

1 1  was  not  poor  nor  rich,  tho'  from  my  youth 
A  son  of  labour,  yet  of  labour  which 
Had  disciplined  my  soul,  and  taught  me  much. 
Men  may  buy  gold  too  dear,  but  wisdom  never  ; 
At  a  great  price  had  I  my  knowledge  bought, 
Thro'  years  of  change,  yet  deemed  it  cheaply  won. 
I  did  not  scorn  the  toil,  nor  think  myself 
Ignoble  among  men  because  of  it. 
All  blood  is  ancient,  poor  and  rich  alike  ; 
I  knew  that  all  the  keys  of  earth  do  not 
Hang  on  the  rich  man's  girdle  ;  and  I  saw 
All  seek  their  own,  like  rowers,  every  man 
Pulling  toward  himself:  I  set  my  feet 
Upon  the  stedfast  ground,  and  needed  not 
To  prop  my  fortunes  with  another's  wealth. 
All  is  not  visible  that  helps  ;  there  comes 
Full  many  a  blessed  angel,  unawares 
And  all  unseen,  to  give  us  strength  in  hours 
Of  weakness  or  of  sorrow,  when  our  cry 
To  man  is  vain,  and  all  things  are  against  us  ; 


136  MY  OLD  LETTERS.  [line  55. 

To  stay  us  up  when  falling,  or  avert 

The  perilous  stroke  from  the  quick-cleaving  sword, 

Or  to  divert  the  lightning  from  its  path, 

That  would  have  slain  us  with  its  angry  edge. 

1 1  saw  men  lean  upon  their  fellow-men, 
And  with  them  fall.     I  saw  men  wildly  plunge 
Into  life's  faithless  marshes,  there  to  sink. 
In  giddy  crowds,  I  saw  my  fellow-men 
Walk  over  broken  arches,  as  if  all 
Were  solid  pavement,  dropping  one  by  one 
Into  the  foam  below.     Content  to  pass 
In  unambitious  calm  to  the  one  goal 
On  beaten  paths,  I  neither  rose  nor  fell. 
The  little  bird,  they  say,  builds  little  nest, 
So  I,  with  little  gold,  pass  thro'  this  world 
As  one  who  has  few  wants,  and  ask  not  much 
For  a  rough  journey  that  so  soon  will  end. 
Better  the  free  bird  of  the  barren  moor 
Than  the  caged  eagle  of  the  castle  hall. 
He  that  wants  gold  must  dig  for  it ;  and  he 
Who  seeks  a  harvest  must  both  till  and  sow. 
Sow  not  the  sea,  nor  plough  the  shingle-slope ; 
'Tis  labour  lost,  'tis  time  clean  cast  away. 
Choose  the  good  soil  and  seed,  nor  sow  the  wind, 
Lest  thou  reap  but  the  whirlwind  ;  sow  not  folly, 
Lest  thou  reap  madness  ;  seek  not  mighty  things, 
Nor  aim  at  lofty  place  or  purple  pomp. 
Crowns  cure  no  heartaches,  and  the  blazing  hall 
Of  midnight,  decked  for  pleasure's  gayest  mirth, 
Pours  in  no  light  into  the  troubled  soul. 
More  than  a  gate  of  iron  does  it  need 


line  86.]  BOOK  VI.  137 

To  keep  out  want,  and  yet  it  no  less  needs 
More  than  a  gate  of  gold  to  keep  out  fear 
And  sorrow  from  the  heart  in  evil  days, 
Or  bar  the  entrance  of  the  foe  of  foes. 
Death  comes  altho'  no  trumpet  should  be  blown, 
As  night  will  come  even  tho'  no  curfew  sounds. 
Call  that  alone  your  own  which  no  one  here 
Has  given  you,  and  of  which  no  man  can  rob  you. 
Good  cannot  come  too  often  or  too  soon, 
Nor  can  ill  visit  us  too  seldom,  yet 
How  little  know  we  what  is  good  or  ill ! 
This  only  do  we  know  of  certainty, 
That  either  we  must  die  the  early  death, 
Or  toil  and  suffer  much  :  such  is  the  lot 
Of  man  and  woman  ;  such  the  discipline 
By  which  the  soul  is  purged,  and  meetened  for 
The  kingdom  of  the  sorrowless  above. 
The  path  between  the  cradle  and  the  coffin, 
Be  it  or  long  or  short,  is  never  smooth. 
The  ladder  to  the  City  is  the  cross. 
Yet  oftentimes  we  double  all  our  grief 
By  moody  visions  of  imagined  ills, 
And  shrink  from  that  which  we  shall  never  see. 
1  If  I  would  know  the  Highest,  I  must  stoop 
And  take  the  lowest  place,  for  only  there 
Will  He  reveal  Himself,  and  tell  me  all 
The  greatness  of  His  everlasting  love. 
If  I  would  find  the  Highest,  I  must  rise 
And  soar  above  this  cloud-encompassed  globe. 
And  yet  our  roots  of  being  are  beneath 
And  not  above  this  perishable  soil. 


138  MY  OLD  LETTERS.        [line  117. 

In  secrecy  and  silence  our  true  life 

Gathers  its  strength  and  stores  up  all  its  beauty ; 

Then  shoots  above  the  surface,  spreads  itself 

To  the  fresh  breeze  and  vital  sunshine,  thus 

To  blossom  and  to  ripen  its  rich  fruit. 

The  vine  of  life  needs  training  ;  and  it  asks 

Both  cold  and  heat,  the  midnight  and  the  noon. 

It  roots  itself  in  ashes,  yet  it  climbs 

All  heights  ;  and  from  its  lofty  terraces 

It  shakes  its  fruit  exulting,  to  refresh 

The  toiling  dwellers  in  the  vale  below. 

Let  no  one  say,  To  this  I'll  never  stoop  ; 

I  was  not  born  for  this  ;  a  higher  lot 

I  claim  than  that  of  bondsman  to  the  soil. 

Thou  know'st  not  what  is  coming  on  the  earth, — 

How  low  thou  may'st  be  brought  ere  life  be  done. 

Say  not,  This  brackish  well  I  will  not  taste ; 

Ere  long  thou  may'st  give  thanks  that  even  this 

Is  left  for  thee  in  such  a  burning  waste. 

Nor  say,  Let  me  enjoy  my  lightsome  youth, 

And  take  my  fill  of  folly ;  then  repent, 

And  so  undo  the  evil.     Is  it  so  ? 

Does  tainted  blood  thus  easily  run  pure  ? 

Are  wasted  years  thus  easily  recalled  ? — 

Unstring  the  bow,  but  will  that  heal  the  wound 

Made  by  its  shaft  ?     Or  sheathe  the  angry  sword, — 

Will  that  give  back  the  blood  which  it  has  shed  ? 

1  But  I  am  wandering.     Yet  thoughts  like  these 
Would  oft  rise  up  within  me  as  I  went 
And  came  with  easy  step  and  easier  heart, 


line  147.]  BOOK  VI.  139 

To  fill  up  day  by  day  my  round  of  toil, — 

Toil  without  care,  whose  nights  were  calm  and  sweet. 

1  Xot  once,  nor  twice,  I  took  my  eager  way 
Beyond  this  smoky  canopy  ;  I  longed 
To  gaze  upon  the  virgin-world  without, 
Unsoiled  with  earthly  vapour,  such  as  here 
Hideth  the  fair  face  of  the  universe, 
Its  stars  and  sun,  its  hills  and  woods  and  flowers, 
Its  buoyant  streams  and  unpolluted  sea. 
The  city  was  my  home  ;  as  such  I  loved  it ; 
And  yet  there  seemed  a  glorious  belt  of  light 
Girdling  it  round  afar,  which  wooed  me  hence, 
And  ofttimes  drew  me  out  beyond  its  gloom. 
These  cities  are  the  mysteries  of  earth, 
The  undredged  ocean-depths  of  human  ill. 
I  cannot  fathom,  nor  can  read  aright 
The  meaning  of  this  human  chaos,  which 
Lies  all  around  me,  heap  on  heap,  and  I 
An  atom  of  the  smallest  of  these  heaps  ! 
The  goodness  and  the  crime,  the  joy  and  grief, 
The  song  and  silence,  mirth  and  bitter  tears, 
The  dying  and  the  living  all  are  here, 
Crowded  together  like  the  ashes  flung 
From  its  great  heart  of  fire  by  some  volcano. 
I  love  the  night  of  cities,  when  deep  sleep 
Falls  on  the  many  thousands  who  all  day 
Toil  'mid  their  noise.     Their  noon,  no  doubt,  is  dim  ; 
The  sweat  of  labour  is  on  each  wan  face, 
And  pleads  for  rest  and  silence  ;  but  their  midnight 
Is  like  the  desert  when  the  winds  are  low, 
Or  the  great  sea  when  tempests  are  at  rest. 


140  MY  OLD  LETTERS.         [line  178. 

The  livelong  day  I  seem  to  hear  but  man, 

And  man's  monotonous,  never-ending  shout 

Of  anger,  or  of  bustle,  or  of  fret : 

The  night  brings  back  the  still  small  voice  of  God. 

The  day  has  eyes,  but  the  blind  night  has  ears  ; 

So  said  the  ancients.     Let  us  borrow,  then, 

The  ears  of  night,  and  listen,  as  the  notes 

Come  from  afar  upon  the  lonely  spirit, 

To  teach  the  wisdom  which  the  day  denies. 

I  loved  to  gather  flowers  ;  I  bade  them  grow 

Beneath  my  window  in  the  narrow  nook 

I  called  a  garden,  tho'  the  dust  and  smoke 

Tainted  their  fragrance,  sullied  their  bright  bloom. 

But  the  pure  flowers  without  I  loved  the  best, 

And  sought  them  out  o'er  many  a  pleasant  mile, 

When  welcome  holidays  brought  liberty, 

And  drew  my  steps  to  moor  or  field  or  hill, 

Leaving  behind  the  city's  sultry  smoke. 

The  orchis  of  the  marsh  I  plucked  ;  the  bindwood, 

That  on  the  hedges  hangs  its  white  and  purple  ; 

The  primrose  and  the  daffodil,  that  scent 

First  summer's  maiden  air  ;  the  buttercup, 

Spangling  the  meadow  with  its  brilliant  gold  ; 

The  timid  violet,  that  hides  the  bud 

From  which  the  sweetness  breathes  ;  the  pimpernel, 

That  prophesies  of  coming  rain  or  sunshine  ; 

The  star  of  Bethlehem,  which  I  have  heard 

Grows  goodliest  in  Judea's  desolate  vales  ; 

The  lovelorn  lily,  leaning  o'er  her  stem 

And  spilling  her  fresh  odours  on  the  ground  ; 

The  sweet-pea,  sweetest  of  the  sweet  in  scent, 


line  209.]  BOOK  VI.  141 

With  all  the  rainbow  on  its  blushing  buds  ; 

The  lily  of  the  valley,  sheathed  in  green  ; 

The  snowdrop,  smiling  o'er  departed  winter, 

And  yellow  crocus,  singing,  "  Spring  is  come." 

I  found  few  flowers  erect ;  they  droop,  some  more, 

Some  less,  however  loved  and  visited, 

Hanging  their  heads  upon  the  stem,  afraid 

To  look  straight  at  the  sun,  or  take  the  stroke 

Of  the  descending  rain  ;  save  only  one, 

The  water-lily,  as  it  floats  upon 

The  tranquil  lake,  and  gazes  ever  up 

In  rain  or  sunshine  on  the  welcome  heavens. 

Which  shall  I  be,  I  said, — the  one  erect, 

Fearless  of  heat  and  storm,  or  bending  o'er 

Upon  our  mother  earth,  like  all  the  rest  ? 

Drooping  or  upright,  let  me  still  inhale 

The  breath  of  God,  and  drink  the  light  of  heaven. 

'  Some  miles  away,  unsoiled  by  smoke  and  dust, 
Spread  out  a  spacious  moor  ;  its  solitude 
To  me  was  sweet  society.     Slow  years 
Have  passed  since  last  I  lay  amid  its  heath  ; 
Yet,  fresh  as  yesterday,  I  call  it  back. 
Round  yon  green  hillock  the  faint-scented  broom 
Entwines  a  coronet  of  matchless  gold  ; 
Here  the  sweet-briar,  with  its  fragile  rose, 
Hard  by  some  sapling  birch  exhales  its  joy  ; 
There  the  bog-myrtle,  covering  miles  of  moor, 
Wastes  its  wild  perfume  ;  and  the  meadow-queen 
Sweeter  than  all,  and  beautiful  as  sweet, 
Adorns  the  marsh.     O  untrained  loveliness, 
And  odours  as  untutored,  of  these  wilds, 


142  MY  OLD  LETTERS.         [line  240. 

That  have  no  eye  to  see  them,  and  no  fond 
Enthusiast  like  myself  to  drink  their  breath  ; 
Of  what  a  glorious  world  ye  form  a  part, 
And  that  no  mean  one !     Wondrous  wilderness  ! 
Uncivilised  and  barren,  yet  how  fair! 
I  would  not  blot  you  from  the  face  of  earth, 
Nor  turn  you  into  gardens.     Hold  your  own 
Against  the  encroaching  culture  of  the  age, 
And  sparkle  on,  ye  gems  of  ancient  days, 
Pure  relics  of  old  nature  in  its  prime. 

*  One  flower  I  found,  and  loved  above  the  rest, 
The  rose  of  roses  did  it  seem  to  me  ; 
I  plucked  it  from  the  garden  where  it  grew, 
And  brought  it  gently  home  to  grow  in  mine. 
You  knew  its  worth  and  loveliness.     Bright  eve 
Was  that  when  first  she  stood  beneath  my  roof 
And  lighted  up  my  dwelling, — fair  and  young, 
Her  lot  seemed  glad,  for  holy  love  was  in  it, 
That  maketh  all  things  bright ;  our  cup  ran  o'er. 
We  praised  the  Giver  of  the  gushing  joy, 
Walking  together  o'er  the  restless  earth, 
With  faces  set  to  the  eternal  hills. 
Good  to  be  loved  and  good  to  love  it  was  ; 
To  be,  each  to  the  other,  all  in  all ; 
Sweet  to  be  little  known,  and  to  retire 
Into  each  other,  like  the  flowers  at  even, 
Closing  their  petals  till  the  morning  break. 
Nearest  to  God,  they  say,  is  he  who  has 
The  fewest  wants  :  our  wants  were  small  and  few ; 
There  seemed  no  place  to  wound  us  on.     The  storm 


line  270.]  BOOK  VI.  143 

That  struck  the  tree-tops  or  the  ambitious  spire, 
Passed  over  us  ;  we  were  not  high  enough 
To  feel  its  rage.     Yet  with  the  wedding-ring 
Come  cares  as  well  as  joys  ;  for  sorrow  lifts 
The  poor  man's  latch,  and  sits  down  at  his  hearth. 
The  valley  that  escapes  the  upper  storm 
Receives  the  flood  that  rushes  from  the  hills. 

*  Three  children  filled  our  home  with  infant-mirth, 
Each  voice  a  melody,  each  face  a  flower ; 
They  shone  and  left  us,  not  to  reappear 
Until  the  grave  gives  up  its  holy  dust. 

1  Our  little  ones  all  died  in  summer-time : 
No  winter's  frost  thickened  their  parting  breath  ; 
No  cutting  March-wind  smote  their  tender  cheeks, 
Nor  chilling  snow  upon  their  coffins  fell, 
But  only  sunshine.     There  was  kindly  grass 
To  lay  above  the  mould,  and  roses  fresh 
To  sprinkle  on  the  turf,  a  fair  blue  sky 
To  cover  all,  and  tell  that  God  is  love, 
And  that  which  sin  has  done  will  love  undo. 
I  thought  it  strange  that  summer  breath  should  kill ; 
And  yet  'twas  better  thus  to  lay  them  down, 
Swathed  in  soft  sunshine,  likest  to  themselves, 
And  that  amid  such  brightness  they  should  pass 
Up  to  the  fields  which  no  wan  winter  chills, 
And  where  they  rest  until  the  wondrous  dawn. 
Day  of  the  great  undoing  !    When  wilt  thou 
Arrive  to  smite  the  spoiler,  pluck  the  spoil 
From  his  unpitying  hands,  refill  the  heart, 
Aching  and  empty,  with  its  treasured  gems, 
That  for  a  season  have  thus  passed  away  ? 


144  MY  OLD  LETTERS.         [line  301. 

When  shall  the  Healer  of  the  sick  earth  come  ? 

Creation  sighs  for  Him  ;  man's  weary  frame 

Asks  for  His  coming;  maimed  humanity 

Bids  Him  make  haste ;  each  deathbed  crieth,  Come  ; 

Each  broken  heart  appeals  to  His  great  pity, 

And  asks  Him  not  to  tarry ;  earth's  deep  graveyards, 

Filled  with  the  relics  of  lost  love,  cry  out 

And  say,  How  long  ?     Man's  never-resting  heart, 

Drooping  by  reason  of  His  absence,  pleads 

For  His  arrival,  turning  wistfully 

To  the  still  clouded  east,  expecting  dawn. 

O  day  of  promised  health,  when  wilt  thou  come? 

The  fore-glow  is  not  yet  upon  the  clouds, 

And  the  tall  peaks  are  still  asleep  in  gloom  ; 

The  snowy  sheath  upon  the  ancient  hills 

Is  still  without  its  streak  of  morning  gold. 

The  day-star  lingers,  and  the  ocean  sighs, 

The  forest  waves  its  boughs,  and  eagerly 

Beckons  the  lingering  sunshine.     Morn  of  morns, 

When  wilt  thou  dawn,  and  bring  the  eternal  noon  ? 

Another  child  was  born  to  us  ; — alas  ! 
That  life  should  bring  death  with  it,  and  that  joy 
Should  introduce  the  sorrow  and  the  night. 
Strange  sickness  smote  the  mother  when  her  child 
Was  born  ;  the  freshness  faded  from  her  face  ; 
Her  cheek  grew  wan,  and  yet  her  eye  was  bright ; 
Her  step  was  feeble,  but  her  spirit  firm  ; 
Her  voice  was  faint,  and  yet  her  words  were  strong. 
Within  the  drooping  heart  there  seemed  to  sit 
A  blessed  angel,  whispering  peace  divine, 
And  telling  of  a  love  that  could  not  fail, — 


line  332.]  BOOK  VI.  145 

A  love  whose  cup  of  honeyed  wine  can  make 
The  wormwood  sweet,  and  bid  the  heart  be  still, 
Lifting  the  sinking  spirit  into  strength. 
She  knew  the  arm  on  which  the  helpless  lean,    - 
The  resting-place  where  weary  souls  sit  down, 
Footsore  and  fainting,  on  Time's  rugged  road, 
Beneath  the  heat  of  life's  unsparing  noon. 

1  She  loved  and  watched  and  nursed  her  infant  joy, 
Not  long  to  love  and  watch  and  nurse  below. 
Each  anniversary  of  her  great  grief, 
As  summer  months  brought  round  the  well-known  days, 
Deepened  the  shadow  of  the  past  upon  her, 
And  made  the  earth  appear  less  truly  home. 
We  spoke  the  words  of  comfort,  and  her  eye 
Kindled  ;  but  kindled  most  whene'er  we  told 
Of  the  reunion,  where  the  broken  links 
Of  mortal  life  become  immortal  chains, 
Where  all  is  endless  fellowship,  and  where 
The  living  splendour  of  the  jasper  wall 
Shuts  out  the  foe  of  life.     Our  words  availed 
For  short  relief ;  the  shadow  came  again. 
The  rivers  ask  not  is  it  much  or  little 
That  they  can  pour  into  the  craving  sea, 
But  each  one  giveth  as  he  hath  to  give : 
So  gave  we  to  her,  in  her  soul's  sore  thirst 
And  weariness,  such  as  we  had  to  give 
Of  gentle  truth,  and  she  was  comforted  ; 
Yet  needed  to  be  comforted  again 
By  a  far  wiser  comforter  than  we, — 
By  Him  who  said,  My  peace  I  give  to  you, 
Let  not  your  heart  be  troubled  nor  afraid. 


146  MY  OLD  LETTERS.         [line  363. 

1  One  night  she  hushed  her  babe  to  sleep  ;  lay  down 
To  rest  beside  the  crib  that  held  her  treasure, 
And  sleep  the  mother's  ever  wakeful  sleep. 
The  baby  slept,  the  mother  closed  her  eyes  ; 
The  baby  woke,  the  mother  slumbered  on  ; 
The  baby  cried,  the  mother  heard  no  cry. 
The  morning  came,  the  mother  opened  not 
Her  eyes  upon  her  darling  ;  her  stiff  fingers 
Still  grasped  the  cradle-string,  the  cradle  rocked  not. 
She  had  gone  up  from  her  last  couch  on  earth 
To  one  above,  to  wait  the  meeting-time 
Between  herself,  her  husband,  and  her  babe. 
Her  last  words,  dropping  from  her  lips  that  even, 
Ere  she  lay  down  upon  the  quiet  bed, 
From  which  she  never  rose,  were,  "  We  shall  be 
Like  Him,  for  we  shall  see  Him  as  He  is." 
Her  grave  is  in  the  churchyard,  just  between 
Her  little  ones,  and  on  the  stone  her  name 
Carved  simply,  with  one  beaming  text  above : 
"  Till  the  day  break  and  shadows  flee  away." 

1  Each  cross  has  its  inscription,  and  on  mine 
Was  written  legibly,  u  That  which  I  do 
Thou  knowest  not  now,  but  thou  shalt  know  here- 
after." 
And  each  cross  has  its  well,  deep,  deep  below, 
And  inexhaustible, — a  well  of  life 
For  after-days  of  drought  and  barrenness. 
Each  cross,  too,  has  its  rainbow,  light  on  cloud 
Cast  sweetly  down,  that  all  may  not  be  dark. 
My  rainbow  seemed  to  break,  but  yet  upon 
The  fragment,  as  it  hung  upon  the  cloud, 


line  393.]  BOOK  VI.  147 

Right  o'er  a  marble  tomb,  I  read  the  words, 
"  The  sun  shall  be  no  more  thy  light  by  day." 

1  Small  sorrows  fret  us,  great  ones  overawe ; 
The  petty  weaken,  but  the  huge  make  strong, 
And  strip  off  the  unreal  and  untrue. 
The  storm  has  grandeur  in  it  as  it  splits 
The  stubborn  rock,  and  sends  its  boulders  down 
Into  the  valley  ;  but  the  peevish  gust, 
Which  in  the  self-will  of  its  idleness 
Tears  the  gay  buds  to  pieces,  is  made  light  of. 
The  little  cares  of  common  life  but  vex  ; 
Misprized  or  overlooked,  they  pass  away ; 
The  large  ones  lay  the  spirit  in  the  dust, 
Then  lift  it  up  again  to  higher  greatness. 

1 0  sacred  fire,  which  burneth  not  in  vain, 
Extracting  all  the  sweetness  of  the  incense, 
Filling  the  temple  with  its  gracious  odour, 
And  sending  up  to  heaven  the  purged  praise ! 

1 0  inward  bread,  of  which  the  sated  world 
Knows  nought,  in  this  its  day  of  luxury, 
When  all  is  feasting,  and  the  high-heaped  board, 
That  scorneth  fasting,  feedeth  every  lust ! 

1 0  mighty  spell  of  God,  that  disenchants 
This  world's  bewildering  beauty,  strips  the  veil 
Of  unreal  glory  from  the  face  of  earth, 
And  shows  us  what  the  things  around  us  are ! 
Out  from  the  clamour  of  the  thousand  sounds 
That  take  all  music  out  of  life,  we  are 
As  in  a  moment  snatched,  and  made  to  dwell 
Alone,  in  silent  converse  with  that  world 
Where  song  is  sweetest,  into  which  the  loved 


148  MY  OLD  LETTERS.         [line  424. 

Have  gone,  and  into  which  our  hearts  have  followed, 

As  our  far  truer  home  ;  from  which  there  comes 

A  richer  melody  than  we  have  known  ; 

Whose  silence  seemcth  but  a  softer  sound, — 

The  lowest  note  on  the  wide-ranging  scale 

Of  perfect  harmony,  a  note  that  suits 

So  well  the  solitude  of  sorrow's  cell. 

'This  home  of  mine,  once  filled  with  household  wealth, 
And  rich  in  love  that  seemed  imperishable, 
Was  now  a  shipwrecked  vessel  :  four  already 
Washed  overboard,  the  rest  to  follow  soon. 
But  who  that  has  not  known  the  loss  can  tell 
The  desolations  of  the  hearth,  when  those 
Who  gathered  round  it  once  in  childhood's  joy 
Have  all  been  taken,  and  each  chair  is  empty  ? 
He  who  has  crossed  the  river  knows  its  depth, 
Others  upon  the  brink  can  only  guess. 
Sorrow  lights  up  the  cross,  and  takes  us  back 
To  the  old  rock  of  Golgotha,  when  night 
Came  down  upon  the  soul  of  Him  who  knew 
Nor  sin  nor  darkness,  dwelling  in  the  light 
That  fills  eternity  with  life  and  day. 
We  see  the  Mourner,  Him  who  bare  our  griefs 
And  carried  all  our  sorrows,  moving  on 
From  the  cold,  stony  cradle  to  the  cross, 
Under  the  sentence  of  a  righteous  death, 
Because  of  those  whose  guilt  was  on  His  head  ; 
And  the  old  hymn  swells  out  in  plaintive  notes, 
As  in  the  ages  gone,  that  tells  of  all 
He  bore  :  "  Lugctc pads  angclir 

'  Beneath  the  shadow  of  the  covering  cross, 


line  455-]  BOOK  VI.  149 

Where  danger  cannot  reach  us,  and  where  all 
Life's  evil  is  transfigured  into  good, 
Faith  finds  her  refuge  in  the  day  of  ill, 
And  hope  re-plumes  itself  for  higher  flight. 
True  hope  is  always  lofty,  and  presents 
The  skyward  side  of  morning  to  the  soul, 
Bidding  it  look  beyond  these  mist-wrapt  hills. 
The  hope  which  millions  live  on  is  a  shadow 
Which  never  turns  to  substance,  a  thin  vapour, 
On  which  the  sun  is  shining  for  an  hour. 
Some  live  on  this,  and  with  them  the  good  time 
Is  always  coming ;  and  some  live  on  dreams, 
Which  never  grow  to  waking  history, 
Nor  make  a  doer  of  the  dreamer  ;  some 
Feed  upon  gloom,  and  can  see  nothing  bright 
Even  in  a  star,  or  brighter  than  a  star, 
The  happy  face  of  laughing  childhood  ;  some 
Live  upon  mirth  and  roses,  smiles  and  song, 
As  if  their  being  were  an  insect's  day, 
A  swallow's  life  upon  a  sunny  lake. 
Not  all  are  glad  who  sing ;  how  many  here 
Utter  a  mirth  which  they  have  never  felt ! 
Not  all  are  sorrowful  who,  looking  round 
With  shaded  forehead,  and  with  fervid  eye, 
And  grave  pale  face  of  pity,  sometimes  wet 
With  tears  of  love,  on  a  self-cheated  world, 
Would  fain  relieve  the  anguish  that  they  see, 
And  share  their  own  deep  ever-serious  joy 
With  men  whose  laughter  is  but  hollowness. 
*  It  is  not  everything  that  gold  can  buy  ; 
What  man  needs  most  is  far  beyond  its  reach. 


150  MY  OLD  LETTERS.         [line  486. 

The  joy  that  fills  and  ends  not  is  of  heaven, 

And  all  heaven's  gifts  are,  like  the  light  of  noon, 

Free  to  the  sons  of  men,  or  rich  or  poor. 

There  is  no  evil  eye  above,  to  grudge 

Another's  good  ;  'tis  only  upon  earth 

That  envy  dwells.     Love  fills  the  heaven  of  heavens  ; 

For  all  that  God  has  given  or  daily  gives, 

The  least  or  largest  of  His  liberal  gifts, 

Are  unbought,  like  the  dew  upon  the  mead, 

His  own  free  love  the  fountain-head  ;  a  love 

In  which  all  blessing  is  contained  for  man  ; 

The  love  that  gloweth  in  the  sun  and  moon, 

In  the  rich  concave  of  the  bending  arch 

Or  face  of  this  all-hospitable  earth, 

Where  love  once  walked  in  lowly  majesty, — 

Where  heaven  descended  with  its  gifts  of  peace, — 

Where  the  great  life  was  lived,  the  great  death  died, 

That  death  might  die  for  ever,  life  might  live, 

And  the  deep  grave  be  emptied  of  his  prey. 

'  When  we  are  born  into  the  world  we  weep, 
We  know  not  why, — some  sudden  pain,  perhaps  ; 
Some  chill  that  strikes  us  from  the  wintry  world 
On  which  we  all  unconsciously  are  entering ; 
Or  some  foreboding  of  the  perilous  future, 
As  if  the  new-born  soul  did  prophesy 
In  sad  but  inarticulate  wail,  of  days 
To  come  ;  as  if  the  curtain  had  been  lifted 
For  a  brief  moment,  and  the  vista  given 
To  infant  eyes  of  shaded  scenes  afar, 
The  changes  of  the  threescore  years  and  ten. 
Thus  life  beginneth  in  unconscious  tears, 


line  517.]  BOOK  VI.  151 

And  each  day  onwards  does  the  cause  reveal. 

The  prophet-infant  looks  before  and  weeps, 

As  did  the  Hebrew  babe  upon  the  Nile. 

The  old  look  back  into  the  wrinkled  past, 

And  learn  the  causes  of  their  childhood's  tears. 

For,  each  day,  sorrow  greets  us  on  our  way, 

His  face  becomes  familiar  like  a  friend's  ; 

We  bid  him  stay  one  moment,  while  we  ask 

His  errand  :  "  Whence,  and  whither,  friend,  to-day  ?  " 

He  answers,  "  Even  where  I  oft  have  been  ; 

The  way  I  know,  and  thou  shalt  know  it  too." 

1  Yet  to  how  many  are  such  lessons  vain  ! 
Sorrow  goes  past  them,  like  an  empty  cloud 
That  brings  no  rain,  but  merely  for  an  hour 
Darkens  their  sky.     They  weep,  then  wipe  away 
Their  tears,  and  life  assumes  its  smiles  again. 
More  gaily  than  before  their  barque  moves  on, 
The  wrecks  that  lie  beneath  it  all  forgotten, 
And  the  rude  breakers  of  the  wind-lashed  sea 
Smoothed  into  silver  'neath  a  golden  sun. 

'  Learn  well,  and  learn  from  friend  and  enemy, 
From  sorrow  and  from  joy  ;  learn  and  unlearn. 
'Tis  hardest  to  unlearn,  for  the  warped  will 
Resists  the  teaching  and  repels  the  teacher ; 
Erasure  of  long  error  from  the  mind 
Demands  a  sharp  and  skilful  discipline. 
But  yet  more  tedious  is  the  process  needed 
For  straightening  of  a  long-perverted  will, 
The  undoing  and  unlearning  of  the  past. 
Trust  not  the  progress  of  a  boastful  age  ; 
Each  age  confutes  old  falsehoods,  but  begets 


152  MY  OLD  LETTERS.         [line  548. 

Others  as  sad  as  those  which  it  explodes. 

Could  things  be  done  twice  over,  grave  men  tell  us, 

They  would  be  rightly  done,  and  what  one  day 

Was  done  amiss  would  be  set  straight  the  next. 

As  if  men  never  erred  but  once  !     So  speak 

The  oracles  of  time  ;  and  yet  I  know  not 

If  such  has  ever  been  the  pliancy 

Even  of  one  human  will.     I  find,  alas  ! 

The  foolish  and  the  wise  alike  refuse 

To  learn  and  to  unlearn,  tho'  both  are  prompt 

To  teach,  and  wonder  why  their  words  are  vain. 

Tis  not  for  want  of  true  words  truly  spoken 

That  man  remains  untaught  in  every  age. 

Adown  the  shaken  leaf  or  sloping  rock 

The  raindrop  glides  ;  down  the  hard  mountain-side 

The  streamlet  pours  itself;  and  yet  both  drop 

And  streamlet  pass  away  without  a  trace 

Into  the  valley,  thence  into  the  sea. 

And  yet  no  true  word  dies  ;  no  seed  is  lost, 

Tho'  buried  long.     In  places  and  at  times 

Least  looked  for,  it  reveals  its  hidden  life. 

'  Strange  schools  of  earth,  in  which  the  heirs  of  heav'n 
Are  trained  and  taught.     Sore  lessons  these  we  learn — 
Hard  for  the  heart,  but  harder  for  the  will, 
Beat  into  us  by  bitter  discipline. 
The  emptying  more  difficult  we  find 
Than  all  the  filling ;  the  rubbish-heaps 
Resist  displacement  from  the  well.     Undoing 
Taxes  our  will  more  heavily  than  doing  ; 
Passive  endurance  frets  us  more  than  toil. 
We  wonder  at  the  length  of  chastisement ; 


line  579]  BOOK  VI.  153 

Our  weaknesses  we  know  not,  nor  believe 

That  pain  can  strengthen,  and  that  heavenly  fruit 

Can  ripen  in  the  dark,  or  that  the  trees 

Of  God  are  braced  by  the  cold  winds  of  time. 

He  who  to  manhood  grows  without  a  grief 

Is  but  half-rooted  ;  with  a  will  untamed 

And  self  undisciplined,  he  seeks  his  own. 

To  him  no  mellowness  of  being  comes. 

First  taste  the  bitter  and  then  drink  the  sweet, 

So  shalt  thou  sweetness  know.     First  face  the  storm, 

So  shalt  thou  know  the  gladness  of  the  calm. 

1  Such  is  the  heavenly  order  here  below. 
God  means  it  so  ;  tho'  often  in  the  dark 
He  worketh,  and  men  see  not  what  He  does, 
Or  what  He  aims  at.     But  it  comes  at  length  ; 
Age  after  age  uncoils  itself,  and  drops 
From  the  long  skein  of  past  eternities. 
Each  little  life  of  man,  each  longer  life 
Of  nations,  is  the  evolving  of  a  purpose 
Too  deep  for  us  to  fathom.     Yet  we  live 
As  if  the  universe  were  ours,  and  man 
The  mighty  potentate,  whose  sovereign  will 
Might  do  or  undo,  build  up  or  destroy. 
The  spirit  of  the  age  has  never  been 
Upon  the  side  of  God.     Who  would  be  true 
To  the  great  Voice  above,  must  learn  to  brave 
And  not  to  foster  or  to  lead  that  spirit ; 
Against,  not  with,  the  torrent  he  must  steer  ; 
To  fight,  not  to  obey,  the  imperious  breeze ; 
Quick  to  discern  the  true  significance 
Of  each  new  phase  of  action  or  of  thought. 


154  MY  OLD  LETTERS.         [line  6io. 

Self-nurtured,  self-instructed,  and  self-ruled, 

The  giddy  peoples  of  this  drunken  earth 

Are  all  astir  and  rampant ;  each  his  flag 

Of  liberty  unfurls,  and  marches  on, 

With  progress  as  his  banner-word  aloft, 

Waving  amid  the  shouts  of  victory, 

To  some  unknown  and  mist-encompassed  goal. 

The  frantic  falsehoods  of  delirious  seers, 

Who  teach  us  that  the  Christ  need  not  have  died, 

Or  tell  us  that  the  Christ  has  not  yet  come, 

Are  listened  to  like  heavenly  oracles. 

And  how  shall  all  this  doing  be  undone, 

These  words  unsaid,  and  the  true  speech  of  God 

Go  over  earth,  supplanting  human  lies  ? 

And  how  shall  creaturehood  be  lifted  up 

Into  a  stedfast  rest,  that  shall  secure 

Its  various  parts  of  matter  and  of  mind 

Against  another  fall,  it  may  be,  more 

Dark  and  complete  ?     How  shall  we  be  assured 

That  no  unlooked-for  ruin  shall  o'ertake 

Its  glory  and  perfection  as  at  first? 

1  Twice  over  has  its  well-made  axle  snapped  : 
Once  when  the  angels  sinned,  and  once  again 
When  our  first  father  fell,  and  with  him  drew 
This  perfect  earth.     And  what  man  did  of  old, 
Man  shall  undo, — the  Man  whom  God  hath  sent, 
And  yet  shall  send  again,  when  earth  has  reached 
Maturity  of  evil.     With  Him  comes 
Stability  for  creaturehood  ;  the  new 
And  perfect  order  of  that  universe, 
Whose  axle,  forged  upon  no  human  anvil, 


line  641.]  BOOK  VI.  155 

And  tempered  with  no  earthly  heat  and  cold, 
Shall  never  break  again  nor  loose  its  hold. 
The  Christ  of  God  becomes  the  living  centre 
Of  all  things ;  men  and  angels,  heaven  and  earth, 
Now  gravitate  to  Him,  and  in  Him  find 
Eternal  being,  stedfast  as  His  own, 
Divine  security  for  bliss  like  His, 
With  whom  they  now  are  one  for  evermore. 

*  Brief  is  the  sternest  discipline  of  time, 
Its  aim  and  end  perfection  ;  step  by  step 
We  rise  even  when  we  seem  to  sink,  grow  strong 
Even  when  we  seem  to  faint,  and  win  the  fight 
When  all  things  are  against  us  ;  one  by  one 
We  do  the  life-work  God  assigns  to  us, 
And  wait  the  issue.     'Tis  not  by  the  strong 
In  numbers,  or  in  weapons,  or  in  skill, 
That  God  has  won  the  battles  of  the  earth, 
But  by  the  single  arm  that  took  its  power 
From  Him  alone,  in  conscious  helplessness, 
Confronted  with  the  hosts  of  evil  here. 
'Tis  with  the  few  and  feeble  that  God  sides  ; 
The  bruised  reed  or  shepherd's  sling  is  all 
The  weapon  which  faith  asks  for,  when  the  hosts 
Of  darkness  muster.     Armed  with  such  as  these, 
Calmly  she  marches  on  without  a  fear 
To  the  great  battle-field  which  angels  watch, 
Spectators  of  the  strife  and  victory. 

■  Brief  battle  !  though  to  weary  combatants 
Full  long  it  seems.     Short  day  of  toil,  tho'  sore 
To  those  who  bear  the  burden  and  the  heat 
Of  the  oppressive  noon.     This  broken  spirit 


156  MY  OLD  LETTERS.         [line  672. 

Looks  for  the  great  upbinding  ;  this  worn  frame 

Sighs  for  the  rest,  in  silent  sympathy 

With  all  creation,  whose  deep  groans  it  hears 

And  answers,  longing  for  the  promised  age, 

When  nature,  long  unhealed,  shall  feel  the  touch 

Of  priestly  hands  to  renovate  and  bless. 

The  disinfectant  of  the  world's  foul  air 

Is  on  its  way :  the  Healer  comes  at  length. 

He  speaks,  and  the  world's  fever  passes  off ; 

Earth's  primal  health  and  peace  return  ;  the  voice 

That  said  to  the  dark  tempest,  "  Peace,  be  still," 

Speaketh  again  ;  creation  owns  the  voice, 

Sea,  sky,  and  earth  subsiding  into  calm, 

The  lightning  sheathed,  the  thunder  heard  no  more. 

'  Loud  tho'  the  blast  be,  it  will  fall  at  last, 
And  out  of  it  the  genial  zephyr  comes. 
Let  fall  the  anchor  till  the  gale  be  o'er ; 
Ride  out  the  hurricane,  then  speed  thee  on ; 
Or  better  still,  fill  all  thy  sails  with  it, 
That  it  may  bring  thee  sooner  to  thy  haven. 
The  wildest  storm  that  ever  rent  the  air, 
The  fiercest  earthquake  that  has  ever  shaken 
Earth's  cities  into  chaos,  never  moved 
This  solid  globe  from  its  smooth,  silent  course. 
So  let  the  storms  pass  over  us,  and  so 
Let  life's  most  perilous  earthquakes  spend  their  strength. 
We  move  along  to  our  appointed  goal, 
In  the  long  afterhood  of  coming  time, 
Unswerving  on  our  orbit,  undisturbed 
By  shocks  that  vibrate  over  land  and  sea. 

1  Live  so  as  to  be  missed,  it  has  been  said ; 


line  703.]  BOOK   VI.  157 

So  shall  this  life  of  thine  prove  truly  great. 

Live  so  as  thou  shalt  not  be  missed,  I  say, 

So  shall  thy  life  approve  itself  still  greater 

And  more  complete.     The  pilot  is  not  missed 

When  the  tossed  vessel  in  the  harbour  rests  ; 

September  doth  not  miss  the  sower's  hand, 

If  he  hath  nobly  done  his  work  in  spring ; 

We  do  not  miss  the  sun  of  yesterday, 

Nor  shall  we  miss  to-day's  when  comes  to-morrow. 

'  There  is  but  one  true  Sower ;  He  hath  done 
His  work  for  ever,  not  to  be  done  again. 
He  sowed,  we  reap, — 'tis  well ;  and  yet  again 
We  sow  and  others  reap  ;  so  goes  the  round 
Of  the  great  work  of  God  on  earth,  each  man 
Knit  to  the  other,  and  all  knit  to  Him 
Who  is  the  centre  of  all  work  and  life. 

'  Compassed  about  with  miracles,  we  move 
Across  this  earth,  beneath  that  watchful  sun. 
The  mighty  things  of  sight  and  sound  and  touch 
Gird  us  like  mountains  ;  we  in  midst  of  them 
So  poor  and  little.     Undiscovered  beauty 
Hideth  in  ambush  everywhere,  ere  long 
To  come  forth  in  its  fulness  ;  on  each  side 
Perfection  unenfolded,  waiting  for 
The  day  of  the  unfolding  ;  life-wells  filled, 
And  ready  to  o'erflow,  when  the  quick  touch 
Of  potent  influence  from  long  pent-up  love 
Shall  let  their  fulness  loose  to  do  its  work 
Upon  a  world  where  only  death  has  reigned. 

1  Dead  nature  is  not  God  ;  and  living  nature 
Is  no  mere  thing  of  law,  without  a  will, 


53  MY  OLD  LETTERS.         [line  734. 

Insentient  all,  developing  itself 

In  blind  submission  to  some  innate  force. 

Oh,  is  the  living  music  of  the  earth, 

Are  the  deep  harmonies  of  night  and  day, 

The  thrush's  carol  on  the  evening  elm, 

The  turtle's  low  note  from  the  olive-bough, 

Or,  sweeter  still  than  all  of  these,  the  voice 

Of  man  and  woman  as  it  utters  all 

The  hidden  melodies  of  human  hearts, — 

Are  these  all  soulless,  force  and  matter  all  ? 

Mere  steam-power  motions  ? — hammer-strokes  upon 

Dull  rock  or  iron  ? — fate-begotten  sounds, 

Whose  heavy  clank  reveals  nor  mind  nor  will  ? ' 


BOOK     VII. 


1  But  let  me  tell  about  the  babe  I  spoke  of, 
My  one  remaining  flower. 

The  sweets  of  earth 
Had  lost  their  sweetness  now.    To  me  its  joys 
Were  only  like  the  summer  stars,  that  shine 
Briefly  and  faintly,  lost  in  other  light 
Just  gone  below  the  horizon's  edge,  or  like 
The  wanness  of  the  alabaster  moon, 
That  tries  to  outshine  the  sun.     But  in  him  life 
Seemed  to  come  back  again.     No  after-joys 
Pluck  from  the  head  the  grey  hairs  sown  by  sorrow ; 
And  yet  he  was  a  staff  to  lean  upon, 
A  well  of  sparkling  water  in  the  waste. 
'Twas  something  to  have  him  to  live  for  here ; 
To  have  the  young  fair  face  to  look  upon, 
Where  rich  fresh  being  sat  on  rosy  lips, 
The  cheek  of  childhood  bright  as  apple-bloom ; 
To  have  him  with  me  in  my  daily  walks, 
He  upon  me  and  I  on  him  still  leaning, 
Inseparable.     And  still  I  seem  to  see 
His  slender  frame  and  mark  his  airy  tread, 
Graceful  as  the  light  step  of  mountaineer, 
All  childhood  in  its  motion.     We  set  forth 

159 


160  MY  OLD  LETTERS.  [line  24. 

When  the  grey  wind  of  morning  shook  the  heath 

And  gathered  up  its  fragrance  for  the  lark, 

Whose  notes  came  trickling  down  the  sunlight,  meet 

Reward  for  song.     That  song  was  his  and  mine  ; 

We  loved  it  as  we  loved  the  starry  dew 

Beneath  our  feet  upon  the  mountain  steep ; 

We  loved  it  for  its  purity  and  love ; 

It  seemed  the  melody  of  light  itself, 

Of  light  beyond  the  clouds, — far-travelled  song, 

The  outer  echo  of  some  heavenly  chord, 

Inaudible  in  this  our  lower  sphere. 

1  Years  have  been  drifting  onward,  and  the  child 
Has  overtaken  boyhood  ;  and  the  boy, 
His  cheek  aglow  with  the  rich  red  of  dawn, 
Has  softly  budded  into  dreaming  youth, — 
The  youth  of  fervour,  quick  with  throbbing  thought, 
Thinking  of  what  he  yet  may  be  or  do  : 
For  as  age  looks  behind,  so  youth  before 
Gazes  with  greedy  eye  ;  both  flee  the  present, 
And  both  prefer  the  distant  to  the  near, 
And  both  would  drink  of  fountains  far  away. 
Gay  hopes,  like  sunbeams,  fill  the  fervid  air, 
And  the  warm  pulse  rises  to  fever-heat. 
He  drains  the  cup  which  only  once  we  taste 
In  its  delicious  overflow  of  sweetness, — 
The  cup  which  comes  unbidden  and  unsought, 
Filled  with  strange  nectar  for  the  thirsty  lip, — 
Love's  summer-joy,  the  hydromel  of  time, 
As  in  bright  haste  it  passes  swiftly  by, 
And  touches,  as  it  goes,  youth's  burning  tongue. 


line  54]  BOOK  VII.  161 

■  Life's  pillared  vestibule,  thick-wreathed  with  bay, 
And  sweet  with  odours  of  the  morn,  has  now 
Been  passed.     He  has  gone  in,  with  song  and  smile, 
Into  the  temple,  knowing  not  what  there 
Of  good  or  ill  may  be  revealed  to  him. 

'  Then  breaks  the  dream,  and  the  absorbing  spell 
Loosens  its  hold  upon  the  quivering  brain. 
False  life,  like  vapour,  vanishes  ;  the  true 
Is  waking  up  ;  the  boy  is  putting  on 
The  man.     The  falling  blossoms  now  prepare 
For  being's  large  development,  the  fruit, 
To  which  the  slow  and  varying  processes 
Of  unripe  life  were  working  silently  ; 
For  not  at  once  awoke  the  life  divine, 
So  long  within  him  struggling,  but  suppressed. 
'Twas  not  the  sudden  burst  of  tropic  sun  ; 
'Twas  not  the  sleeper's  instant  start  at  dawn, 
When  from  his  couch  he  springs  to  meet  the  morn, 
Emerging  from  night's  many-coloured  dreams 
Or  sullen  mists  into  the  tranquil  sunshine : 
Not  thus  it  was  that  life  awoke  within  him, 
The  life  that  dies  not  when  all  else  has  died  ; 
But  slowly,  as  the  spirit  of  the  dawn 
Thro'  the  wan  twilight  struggles  into  day. 

1  Now  light,  now  darkness,  spread  themselves  above 
The  feverish  ocean  of  his  sleepless  mind  ; 
Shadow  and  sunshine  strove  for  mastery. 
All  yesterday  was  calm,  to-day  the  gale 
Has  dragged  his  anchors  ;  all  true  things  this  hour 
Fill  him,  thrust  out  the  next  by  all  things  false. 
The  certain  and  uncertain  fought  within  him, 


1 62  MY  OLD  LETTERS.  [line  85. 

Each  for  entire  dominion,  satisfied 

With  nothing  save  the  whole  surrendered  soul. 

Real  and  unreal,  wide  and  narrow,  mist 

And  brilliant  noonshine,  mixed,  or  side  by  side, 

All  came  and  went,  and  came  and  went  again  ; 

Were  welcomed,  then  dismissed,  caressed,  then  loathed, 

As,  with  new  aspect  and  new  argument, 

Hour  after  hour  they  plied  their  varied  art, 

Soliciting  his  early  faith  and  love. 

'"  Lie  down  amid  the  gardens  of  the  earth, 
And  spread  the  rose-leaves  under  you  ;  there  rest 
Amid  the  odour  and  enchantment  which 
The  magic  sunshine  wakens  up  around  ; 
Feed  on  the  lotus-leaf,  and  drink  thy  fill 
Of  pleasure's  purple  cup,  o'erbrimming  here  ; 
Live  upon  creature-loveliness  and  love  ; 
Enjoy  the  beauty  of  this  siren  world, 
Locked  in  its  arms  and  surfeited  with  song, 
Apart  from  toil  and  tempest ;  isolate 
Thy  life  from  other  lives,  fence  off  thyself 
From  the  rough  desert  of  humanity, 
Or  draw  a  curtain  round  thee  to  shut  out 
The  ruggedness  that  mars  thy  silken  rest ; 
Chase  the  rude  darkness  from  thee,  and  sit  down 
To  festival  'neath  midnight's  glowing  lamps  ; 
Woo  nature  to  be  gentle,  and  to  give 
The  calm  of  night  without  the  gloom,  the  flush 
Of  noon  without  its  sultriness,  the  breath 
Of  the  gay  breeze  without  its  angry  fire, 
And  make  once  more  a  Paradise  below." 
So  whispered  from  within  a  silver  voice, 


line  116.]  BOOK  VII  163 

And  straight  he  sought  to  follow,  full  of  hope. 
Others  had  tried  all  this,  and  only  failed, 
But  he  might  better  prosper.     Every  effort 
Needs  not  to  end  in  failure  ;  some  may  find 
The  undiscovered  islands  of  the  blest, 
Brighter  Hesperides  than  those  of  which 
Old  poets  oft  had  sung,  unvexed  with  storm, 
Unvisited  with  pain  or  mortal  weakness  ; 
Where  disappointment  comes  not,  and  where  fear 
Of  a  dark  future  is  unknown  ;  where  death 
Has  no  dominion,  but  where  life,  all  fair, 
Brightens  without  a  change  thro'  dateless  days, 
And  all  is  health  untainted  :  why  should  man 
Live  but  to  suffer  and  to  toil  and  die  ? 
Must  the  old  human  heartache  still  remain 
Uncured  ?     Must  the  old  fever  of  the  brain 
Send  its  hot  poison  thro'  the  helpless  soul 
Without  the  assuaging  anodyne  ?     If  this 
Be  human  destiny,  then  he  at  least 
Will  be  above  it.     For  shall  his  fresh  life, 
Full  of  far-ranging  thoughts  and  unsung  songs, 
Be  scattered  like  the  sea-spray,  or  absorbed 
Like  starlight  in  the  greedy  clouds  of  morn  ? 
Shall  his  great  plan  dissolve  or  die  unspoken, 
Like  the  unchiselled  statue,  held  in  bonds 
Within  its  marble  prison-house,  from  which 
Only  some  master's  touch  can  set  it  free  ? 
Shall  he,  like  the  great  Titan  on  the  cliff 
Of  Caucasus,  look  helpless  down  upon 
A  suffering  race,  himself  a  sufferer  too, 
Under  the  pressure  of  some  will  or  law 


1 64  MY  OLD  LETTERS.         [line  147. 

Which  ought  to  be  resisted,  not  obeyed, 
Which,  as  unrighteous,  ought  to  be  repealed  ? 

1  No  ;  he  will  search  the  hidden  cause  of  evil, 
And  having  searched,  undo  it,  setting  free 
This  fate-chained  earth  with  its  long-burdened  race, 
Infusing  health  into  its  languid  veins, 
And  every  ill  expelling,  even  the  last, — 
The  death  that  darkens  all  things  ;  every  part 
Moulding  to  beauty,  making  perfect  all 
That  is  imperfect,  taking  out  the  sting 
Which  has  so  long  been  left  to  rankle  deep 
And  poison  all  creation.     He  will  be 
The  prism,  which  with  the  occult  energy 
Of  its  dissevering  force  spreads  softly  out, 
Like  beaten  gold,  the  riches  of  the  light, 
Braided  in  sevenfold  lustre.     Shall  the  dust 
He  treads  upon  be  lord  of  him  who  treads  it, 
And  in  self-will  defy  the  will  of  man, 
Or  yield  obedience  to  some  canon  dark, 
Some  law  of  mystery,  which  baffles  mind 
To  fathom  or  to  foil  ?    What  though  he  should 
Perish  in  such  a  work  ?     It  would  be  well, 
If  o'er  his  tomb  a  new  world  should  be  built, 
Freer  and  more  amenable  to  man, 
Less  subject  to  a  superhuman  will ; 
With  broader  laws,  and  rescripts  less  severe 
To  human  frailty  ;  th'  evil  and  the  good 
Less  sharply  and  less  sternly  separated  ; 
The  penalties  less  harsh  and  rigorous, 
Death's  ancient  and  inexorable  statute 
Repealed  for  ever ;  disease  expelled,  and  pain  ; 


line  178.]  BOOK  VII  165 

The  processes  of  nature  made  to  work 
More  wisely,  and  with  less  of  waste  ;  no  sands 
Of  idle  barrenness  ;  no  obstructive  cliffs 
Sundering  the  nations  ;  no  unthrifty  clouds 
Raining  upon  the  sterile  wilderness, 
Or  yet  more  sterile  sea ;  no  withered  leaves, 
And  no  abortive  blossoms  ;  no  chill  plains 
Of  numbing  ice,  and  no  intemperate  sun 
Scorching  the  blood  ;  no  sharp  rebellious  fork 
Of  fiery  lightning,  tearing  into  shreds 
The  great  Creator's  handiwork,  undoing 
What  had  been  done,  unmaking  at  a  stroke 
What  had  been  made  of  beauty  and  of  strength. 

*  He  would  not  live  for  self.     The  generous  sun 
Illumines  not  himself ;  the  city  lamp 
Flings  all  its  light  upon  the  passers-by, 
And  then  gives  place  to  the  eclipsing  dawn  ; 
The  river  flows  not  to  refresh  itself, 
But  dies  in  watering  others.     So  will  he 
Go  forth  upon  a  mission  of  brave  love, 
Be  a  great  power  on  earth  against  all  ill, 
Drain  the  rank  moisture  of  this  marshy  globe, 
And  make  it  all  one  fair  Elysium. 
He  will  beat  down  all  error,  lift  up  truth ; 
He  will  expose  all  hollowness,  and  be 
The  model  of  the  real  in  this  untrue 
And  shallow  world  ;  he  will  bring  down  his  axe 
Upon  all  folly,  or  in  men  or  states, 
On  all  misrule  and  wrong  :  let  the  globe  crack, 
And  the  high  archway  of  the  vaulted  heavens 
Dissolve  ;  what  matters  it,  so  justice  lives  ? 


1 66  MY  OLD  LETTERS.         [line  209. 

His  walk  thro'  earth,  on  to  the  infinite 
Beyond,  shall  be  the  burning  march  of  truth, 
Part  of  a  long  torch-lighted  way,  or  part 
Of  the  great  causeway  of  the  universe, 
Stretching  far  up  and  on,  he  knew  not  whither, 
Amid  celestial  avenues  of  stars, 
That  blaze  on  either  side  like  lamps  by  night 
And  suns  by  day  ;  a  wondrous  prophet-march, 
A  great  self-sacrifice,  to  tell  for  ever 
On  a  self-loving  and  luxurious  world  ! 

'  Nobly  he  wrought,  but  wrought  in  vain  ;  it  was 
Not  one  thing,  but  a  thousand,  that  refused 
To  be  amended  by  his  zealous  love. 
The  one  rebellious  stone  of  Sisyphus, 
Rebounding  and  rebounding  to  the  vale, 
Was  nothing  to  the  innate,  inscrutable  power 
Which  met  and  thwarted  him.     He  was  as  one 
Bent  upon  smoothing  ocean's  myriad  wrinkles  ; 
All  that  he  did  seemed  vain, — the  work  of  one 
Trying  to  chain  the  tempest,  tame  the  thunder, 
Or  quench  the  fierce  volcano's  furnace-fires. 
He  felt  himself  alone,  in  front  of  some 
Huge  but  invisible  power  that  mocked  his  strokes. 
Some  deeper  law  than  he  could  understand, 
With  headlong  but  most  calm  resistlessness, 
Impelled  this  dark  confusion  on  and  on, 
Like  thunder-rack  before  the  unseen  breeze ; 
Some  unknown  code  of  everlasting  rule, 
Working  with  secret  certainty  and  force, 
And  giving  forth  the  inexorable  canons 
Of  a  deep-seated  Nemesis,  that  crossed 


line  240.]  BOOK  VII  167 

All  other  laws,  and  would  not  be  defied 
Or  disenchanted  ;  a  stupendous  will, 
Embodying  persistent  righteousness, 
And  by  relentless  pressure  urging  on 
All  human  things  to  some  still  future  hour 
Of  grander  retribution,  when  the  Judge, 
At  the  assize  which  yet  shall  right  all  wrongs, 
And  place  eternal  good  upon  the  throne, 
Shall  deal  with  the  dark  annals  of  the  race, 
And  by  His  sentence  in  that  day  of  truth 
Shall  bring  to  light  the  all-impelling  law, 
Which  had  in  awful  muteness  been  at  work 
Thro'  ages  past,  deep  in  creation's  core, 
Ordering  and  yet  disordering  all  things  here, 
Both  good  and  evil,  regulating,  yet 
Perturbing  every  orbit,  as  by  some 
Invisible  magnet,  which  no  power  nor  skill 
Of  man  can  reach  to  neutralize  or  bind. 

1  Not  in  great  things  alone  he  fought  and  failed. 
The  little  things  that  lay  in  the  plain  path 
Of  daily  life  perplexed  him  most :  they  seemed 
So  feeble,  yet  so  stubborn  in  resistance, 
So  slight,  and  yet  they  mastered  him.     He  might  not 
Have  wondered  that  the  storm  refused  his  sway  ; 
That  the  red  eye  of  war  still  glared,  and  still 
Her  armies  mustered,  steeping  earth  in  blood ; 
Or  that  the  hollow  and  discoloured  cheek 
Of  pestilence,  or  the  clean  teeth  of  famine 
Still  showed  themselves,  as  in  the  ages  past ; — 
But  why  should  this  poor  poisonous  reptile  breed 
And  crawl  upon  the  soil  which  man  calls  his, 


1 63  MY  OLD  LETTERS.        [line  271. 

Only  to  carry  pain  and  death  to  man  ? 

Why  should  this  worthless  weed  grow  all  unsown, 

Or  the  keen  thorn  shoot  from  the  branch  unsheathed  ? 

Why  should  so  many  tears  fall  hotly  down, 

So  many  hopes  lie  buried  in  the  sand, 

So  many  joys  like  early  spring-blooms  die  ? 

1  The  mighty  and  the  mean  things  of  the  earth 
Yield  to  some  living  universal  statute : 
Not  fate,  but  conscious,  ever-acting  will, 
Wise,  just,  and  loving,  everywhere  at  work 
Where  least  observed  ;  some  influence 
Which  worketh  not  by  chance,  but  overpowers, 
Armed  with  the  Judge's  mighty  fiat,  all 
Opposing  wills,  in  awful  righteousness 
Revealing  God's  eternal  estimate 
Of  every  evil  thing  ;  with  its  most  sure 
And  ever  accurate  tho'  noiseless  touchstone 
Testing  each  word  and  deed,  and  making  known 
The  inevitable  pain  that  tracks  even  now 
Each  devious  step,  and  all  the  endless  ills 
Which,  in  a  thousand  forms,  one  small  departure 
From  the  perfection  of  the  perfect  rule 
Brings  over  man  and  earth.     The  falling  leaf 
Troubles  the  air,  and  the  vibration  spreads 
Wide  over  space.     The  feeble  drop  of  blood 
Falls  on  the  ocean,  and  the  crimson  stain 
Discolours  each  blue  wave  that  swells  or  sinks 
With  the  advancing  or  receding  tide. 

1  Strong  is  the  will  of  man  ;  but  stronger  still 
This  other  will,  veiled  though  it  be,  and  voiceless, 
That  meets  him  like  a  spectre  everywhere, 


line  302.]  BOOK  VII  169 

And  brands  the  sin  he  would  extenuate 
As  the  mishap  of  weakness,  with  the  strong 
And  never  obsolete  sentence  of  the  Judge  : 
"  The  soul  that  sinneth,  it  shall  surely  die." 

'  And  yet  no  Ate,  no  Erinnys  here  ! 
Nor  fate,  nor  fury,  binding  heaven  and  earth, 
Defying  gods  and  men,  as  classic  myth 
Has  sung,  does  this  resistless  will  display. 
It  is  the  will  of  loving  righteousness  ; 
Not  jealousy  of  man  and  human  joy, 
As  the  far-travelled  Greek  would  have  us  know  ; 
But  the  wise  purpose,  ever  on  the  side 
Of  good,  and  wishing  well  to  man  in  all 
His  sorrow  or  his  joy,  and  hating  only 
The  falsehood  and  the  darkness  and  the  sin. 
The  true  God  loveth  truth  ;  His  will, 
Like  a  sharp  ploughshare  turning  up  the  clods 
Of  earth,  or  like  the  strong  invisible  helm 
Guiding  the  ship  thro'  storm,  brings  us  to  good 
Through  the  long  ages  of  opposing  ill, 
In  ways  undreamt  of  by  earth's  wisest  souls. 

4  So  found  ere  long  the  fond  enthusiast, 
Who  sought  out  potent  herbs  to  heal  man's  wounds, 
And  to  regenerate  the  worn-out  world 
With  simples  culled  from  its  own  fields,  which  have 
No  power  to  reach  the  core  of  human  ill. 
He  failed,  for  evil  was  too  strong  for  him  ; 
But  yet,  in  failing,  and  returning  home 
Saddened,  but  yet  not  sour  nor  unbenign, 
From  unsuccessful  warfare,  learned  to  hope. 
Anger  and  haste,  they  say,  good  counsel  mar ; 


170  MY  OLD  LETTERS.        [line  333. 

And  he  sat  calmly  down  to  meditate 

On  that  which  has  been,  is,  and  yet  may  be, 

Wiser  and  less  impetuous  than  before. 

He  might  be  wrong,  and  he  will  patiently 

Seek  out  the  right  and  true  ;  tho'  pride  may  murmur, 

Better  to  ask  the  road  than  go  astray ; 

Better  another's  pilotage  than  shipwreck. 

*  One  virus  from  the  one  sad  tree  of  ill, 
Eaten  in  Paradise,  flows  thro'  our  veins, 
And  taints  our  bodies  with  each  dire  disease, 
Ending  in  death.     One  breath  of  withering  frost, 
Issuing  from  Eden,  has  gone  thro'  the  ages, 
And  into  winter  changed  our  budding  spring. 
One  foe  let  loose,  the  foe  of  man  and  God, 
Has  spread  slow  havoc  wide  and  far  among 
Our  mortal  race.     One  seed  dropped  in  our  soil 
Has  covered  this  fair  globe  with  bitter  weeds. 
Yet  good  as  well  as  ill  was  in  all  this  ; 
And  the  great  law  came  up,  worthy  of  God, 
Deeper  than  other  laws,  upon  whose  strength 
The  keystone  of  a  comely  universe 
Fixes  itself,  and  brings  the  arch  together, 
The  law  which  seizes  upon  sin,  and  turns 
Evil  to  good, — far  wider,  higher  good 
Than  would  have  been  ;  and  yet  in  doing  so 
Stamps  every  sin  with  the  eternal  curse. 

1  That  silent  law,  that  met  him  everywhere 
And  thwarted  every  plan,  was  just,  tho'  stern, 
Was  good,  tho'  fraught  with  sorrow  ;  and  its  course 
Was  upward,  amid  all  the  desolation 
Which  it  was  daily  working,  as  in  power 


line  364.]  BOOK  VII  171 

It  forced  itself  along,  a  thing  of  dread, 

Visible  only  in  its  strange  results. 

It  had  laid  earth  in  ruins,  filled  the  grave, 

Broken  ten  thousand  hearts  ;  yet  it  alone 

Could  build  up  earth  again  and  calm  its  storms, 

Empty  the  grave  and  heal  the  broken  heart. 

On  it  the  new  foundations  of  a  fair 

And  stable  universe  are  to  be  laid, 

When  love  and  righteousness  shall  take  the  throne, 

And  with  perfection  crown  all  creaturehood, — 

Perfection  higher  far  than  at  the  first, 

And  stedfast  thro'  the  everlasting  age, — 

An  age  which  never  sheds  its  leaves,  nor  finds 

Its  hair  grow  grey,  nor  its  bright  eye  turn  dim. 

1  Thus  did  he  read  the  evil  and  the  good, 
And  learned  the  meaning,  understood  the  purpose, 
Which  like  a  living  force  lay  wrapt  in  each  ; 
For  each  thing,  framed  by  man  or  made  by  God, 
Has  different  use.     The  anchor  swimmeth  not, 
But  holds  the  floating  vessel ;  the  tall  mast 
Standeth  immoveable,  and  yet  becomes 
The  spring  of  stateliest  speed  ;  the  soil  is  dead, 
And  yet  the  seed  that  would  yield  up  the  life 
Folded  within  its  grain  must  there  be  sown ; 
The  breakers  grind  the  rocks  to  sand,  and  are 
Themselves  controlled  by  the  small  sand  they  grind  ; 
The  fire  consumes  the  incense  flung  on  it, 
And  yet  in  doing  so  draws  out  in  sweetness 
The  breath  that  only  fire  can  disimprison. 

1  Each  well  of  earth  (they  said  of  old)  contains, 


ij2  MY  OLD  LETTERS.         [line  394. 

Beneath  it  hid,  a  palace  all  of  pearl, 

In  which  the  spirit  of  the  sweet  spring  dwells : 

So  at  the  base  of  all  the  true  and  good 

That  wells  up  here  there  is  a  living  power, 

Perfusing  and  impregnating  the  waters, 

Sending  them  forth  to  a  thrice  needy  world 

To  quench  all  thirst  and  purify  all  stains. 

He  had  digged  down  into  these  palaces, 

To  bring  up  to  the  light  of  day  the  life 

That  lies  deep  hidden  underneath  the  soil ; 

He  had  digged  down,  and  failed.     The  god  had  fled, 

Or  had  become  invisible.     He  could  not 

Lay  hold  of  him,  to  learn  his  secret,  or 

Compel  him  to  obey  another's  will. 

1  On  such  things  musing,  sober  wisdom  came 
To  him  in  his  perplexity  and  fear. 
Daily  the  deeper  meaning  of  all  things 
Around  him  dawned.     The  voice  within  all  these 
External  forms  became  articulate, 
And  spoke  in  power.     He  felt  that  he  was  but 
An  atom  of  the  universe,  sent  here 
To  do  another's  will,  and  to  fulfil 
Another's  purpose,  in  whose  vast  designs 
There  were  no  weaknesses  and  no  mistakes. 
Bowing  the  head,  he  took  a  humble  place, 
Unlearning  his  long  folly,  and  retiring 
From  the  bold  enterprise  he  undertook, 
The  grand  deliverance  of  humanity, 
The  restitution  of  a  broken  world. 
He  learned  the  helplessness  of  creaturehood, 
And  yet  its  strength  for  evil  and  for  ruin. 


line  425.]  BOOK  VII  173 

Man  quenches  life,  but  cannot  life  replace, 

Even  in  the  insect  which  he  treads  upon. 

An  infant's  hand  can  in  a  moment  fire 

A  city,  which  ten  thousand  men  of  skill 

And  might  cannot  rebuild.     The  power  for  evil 

Lodged  in  one  human  will  surpasses  far 

Its  power  for  good.     For  now  six  thousand  years 

Evil  has  fought  with  good,  and  good  with  ill ; 

But  which  has  conquered  in  the  varying  strife, 

Upon  whose  issues  hangs  the  eternal  weal 

Of  this  vast  universe,  once  made  so  good  ? 

1  'Twas  thus  he  learned  his  own  true  part  and  work 
(Meaner  than  once  he  thought,  yet  glorious  still) 
In  turning  the  slow  axle  of  the  world, 
Or  lessening  its  evil  and  its  sin. 
Though  not  a  sun,  he  might  be  still  a  ray ; 
In  solitary  service,  hour  by  hour, 
And  in  prevailing  fellowship  with  Him 
Who  at  the  fountain-head  of  being  sits, 
And  to  the  good,  says  Come,  and  lo,  it  cometh  ; 
Who  to  the  evil  speaketh,  Hence,  depart ; 
Thus  far  shalt  thou  prevail,  but  not  beyond ; 
He  might  in  his  own  sphere  exert  a  force 
And  do  a  work  which  no  one  else  could  do, 
And  which  could  nowhere  else  be  done  than  in 
The  spot  where  he  was  placed.     God's  work  is  done 
By  each  one  doing  his  own  part,  though  small, 
In  his  own  place,  by  keeping  patiently 
The  orbit  within  which  his  motion  lies : 
Who  quits  the  orbit  of  his  mission,  fails. 

'God's  sword  belongeth  to  Himself  alone; 


174  MY  OLD  LETTERS.         [line  456. 

Man  may  not  wield  it,  nor  so  much  as  try- 
To  draw  it  from  the  scabbard  ;  yet  the  day 
Cometh  most  surely,  when  it  shall  leap  forth, 
And  with  its  righteous  edge  do  the  strange  work 
Which  has  been  left  undone  for  ages.     Now 
It  sleeps,  or  almost  sleeps,  save  when  in  secret 
And  in  slow  silence,  like  a  stealthy  foe, 
Moving  along,  it  springs  up  suddenly, 
In  one  dread  moment  finishing  its  work. 
Mute  is  just  vengeance  ;  without  sound  she  strikes 
The  righteous  blow  and  does  her  sacred  work  ; 
As  when  she  smote  the  Cities  of  the  Plain, 
And  bid  the  sun  shine  down  on  Sodom's  grave ; 
Or  when  she  showed  Jerusalem  the  hosts 
Of  proud  Assyria  strewed  like  sand  upon 
Her  western  slopes,  without  the  gleam  of  spear 
Or  sound  of  trumpet  summoning  to  war. 

1  Faith  waiteth  and  is  patient, — this  he  learned  ; 
It  looks  to  unseen  wisdom  ;  leans  upon 
An  unseen  will ;  transports  itself  each  day 
From  the  dark  turbulence  and  chaos  here 
Into  a  peaceful  future ;  makes  no  haste, 
Assured  that  progress  and  perfection  are 
Too  holy  to  be  snatched  at  by  rash  man, 
Who,  in  his  fond  ambition  to  be  God, 
And  sit  at  once  upon  the  throne  of  earth, 
Rejects  the  tardy  processes  of  time. 
Faith  sees  their  weary  slowness,  sees  no  less 
The  retrogression  which  so  often  tries 
Its  constancy.     It  hears  the  voice,  Be  still, 
And  it  is  still ;  for,  sure  as  sunrise,  comes, 


line  487.]  BOOK   VII  175 

Though  with  slow  march,  the  promise  of  the  ages. 

But  reason  is  impetuous,  and  scorns 

To  wait  for  slow  development  and  growth. 

Earth's  fires  must  be  replenished,  that  they  may 

Burn  faster  and  more  fiercely  ;  ocean's  tides, 

Stately  alike  in  tempest  and  in  calm, 

That  from  all  ages  have  kept  time,  and  marched 

By  royal  law  in  every  clime  of  earth 

Backward  and  forward,  must  be  hurried  on  ; 

The  creeping  wheels  of  a  belated  world 

Must  in  man's  service  be  compelled  to  fly 

At  quicker  pace,  by  science  smoothed  and  oiled. 

Ye  planets,  speed  you,  and  ye  lightning-bolts, 

Strike  quicker  blows,  man  frets  at  your  delay ; 

Ye  cataracts,  precipitate  your  fall 

With  swifter  rush  ;  ye  rivers,  run,  and  stay  not 

To  dally  with  the  willow  drooping  o'er  you, 

Or  with  your  grassy  fringe  in  wanton  play  ; 

Ye  winds,  delay  not ;  ye  fire-winged  barques, 

Urge  on  your  race ;  and  ye  swift-rolling  wheels 

That  whirl  along  earth's  iron  pavements,  fly 

With  sevenfold  speed,  like  royal  messengers: 

Man  is  in  haste,  and  ye  his  servants  must 

Loiter  no  more ;  the  goal  is  nearly  reached. 

He  shall  not  surely  die,  but  live,  and  be 

As  gods,  that  know  the  evil  and  the  good, 

Over  both  wielding  high  his  sovereign  sway. 

1  Conscious  of  ill  and  pain,  yet  knowing  not 
The  source  or  cure,  man  walks  the  ruined  earth, 
Each  day  revolving  plans  that  shall  build  up 
Creation's  shattered  gates  and  levelled  walls. 


76  MY  OLD  LETTERS.        [line  518. 

Each  ruin  is  to  him  a  hopeless  riddle. 

Whence  came  it,  and  how  shall  it  be  repaired  ? 

Who  shall  arrest  the  crumbling,  or  bring  back 

The  far-swept  atoms  to  their  native  block  ? 

Each  fragment  seems  to  represent  a  failure, 

The  torso  of  a  sculptor,  whose  right  hand 

Has  lost  its  cunning  in  the  hour  of  need. 

Why  does  he  find  so  many  tangled  threads, 

So  many  dislocated  purposes, 

So  many  morns  without  an  eve,  and  eves 

Without  a  morn  or  hope  of  rising  sun, 

So  many  ladders,  and  yet  none  to  climb  them, — 

So  many  climbers  waiting  for  a  ladder, 

So  many  failures  in  the  race  of  life, 

So  many  wasted  immortalities, 

So  many  dire  eclipses  of  the  soul 

Under  the  sceptre  of  the  Blessed  One  ? 

What  is  the  root  of  wormwood  that  embitters 

All    things   below  ?     Or  what    the    unquenched 

torch, 
That  nightly  seems  to  set  the  world  on  fire  ? 
Is  it  some  deep  inevitable  flaw 
In  that  which  we  call  nature,  or  is  it 
Blindness  or  feebleness  in  nature's  Lord  ? 
Or  is  it  that  all-penetrating  poison, 
Which  man  calls  evil,  but  which  God  calls  sin  ? 
Something  whose  hellish  virulence  eats  in 
To  the  most  central  core  of  human  joy, 
And  dims  the  brilliance  of  its  brightest  gems, 
Something  profoundly  dark,  which  creaturehood 
Has  summoned  into  being,  but  which  only 


line  548.]  BOOK  VII.  177 

He  who  is  infinite  can  pluck  away, 

And  banish  beyond  chance  of  dread  return  ? 

1  Man  asks,  but  cannot  answer,  or,  in  answering, 
Doubles  the  maze,  makes  the  perplexity 
Yet  more  perplexed  ;  then  fretfully  reproaches 
The  Framer  of  the  fabric  for  endorsing 
Laws  that  seem  equally  to  curse  and  bless. 
There  is  no  key  on  earth  which  can  unlock 
The  council-house  of  heaven.     The  key  of  gold, 
Which  opens  wide  each  strong-barred  gate  below, 
Availeth  not  above.     The  golden  axe, 
Which,  they  say,  shatters  even  the  iron  door, 
Is  powerless  here.     No  bribe  or  threat  of  man 
Can  draw  the  secrets  out  that  everywhere 
Lie  hid  in  that  which  he  calls  history 
And  nature.     Like  the  lyre  of  Egypt,  they 
Speak  or  are  silent  as  the  sun  of  dawn 
Touches  their  cords  or  hides  his  magic  beam. 

1  Oft  has  God  spoken,  but  man  closed  his  ear 
Against  all  oracle  or  speech  divine. 
He  has  kept  silence,  and  man  heeded  not, 
Nor  felt  the  awe  which  such  a  stillness  claims. 
Four  centuries  there  were  ere  He,  the  Word, 
Came    down   to   speak   to   man  with   man's   own 

lips, 
Out  of  the  fulness  of  a  human  heart, 
The  undiscoverable  thoughts  of  God, 
And  show  the  love  that  love  alone  can  tell, — 
Four  solemn  ages  in  which  God  kept  silence. 
No  word  from  prophet  or  from  seer  to  man 
Dropt  from  His  lips.     The  oracle  was  mute  ; 


73  MY  OLD  LETTERS.  [line  578. 

The  jewelled  breastplate  flashed  not ;  dream  and  vision 
Alike  were  gone  ;  and  the  great  shrine  was  still. 

1  God  spoke  not,  that  He  might  give  fullest  scope 
For  man  to  speak  and  utter  all  his  wisdom. 
Then  Plato  reasoned,  Socrates,  and  all 
The  wise  of  Greece,  poet  and  orator, 
Philosopher  and  men  of  noble  soul. 
Man  spoke,  and  spoke  with  eloquence  and  power ; 
No  rival  near,  no  messenger  of  heaven, 
To  abash  his  boldness  or  to  seal  his  lips, 
Or  drown  his  human  voice  with  sounds  divine. 

1  But  yet  the  world  by  wisdom  knew  not  God. 
It  wrestled  but  in  vain,  from  age  to  age, 
With  the  perversities  of  human  life, — 
The  problems  that  defy  all  intellect 
And  all  philosophy,  or  old  or  new. 
It  dreamed,  and  tho'  the  dream  was  beautiful, — 
Like  Scipio's,  when  the  spheres  sent  forth  their  music, 
And  sung  his  spirit  into  harmony, — 
It  left  the  heart  unfilled,  the  soul  unblest, 
Unpurged  the  conscience,  unsubdued  the  will. 

'  Ilyssus  bore  the  dreamer's  lays  along 
On  its  clear  blue  ;  Hymettus,  with  its  thyme, 
Welcomed  a  honey  sweeter  than  its  own. 
Brilessus  beckoned  to  its  woody  bowers 
The  pensive  strollers  of  the  Academe  ; 
And  Lycabettus  echoed  back  the  voice 
Of  eloquence  that  filled  Athenian  halls. 
The  olive-shades  were  listeners  to  the  words 
Of  Attic  thoughtfulness  ;  the  sloping  vines 
Of  Parnes  hung  their  clusters  o'er  the  heads 


line  609.]  BOOK  VI L  179 

Of  these  deep-meditative  men,  when  one, 

And  then  another,  and  another  still, 

Conversed  of  things  divine,  groping  their  way 

Through  conscious  darkness,  throbbing  thro'  the  soul 

And  saddening  the  brow,  to  something  fair 

That  lay  beyond  it,  and  that  looked  like  day  ; 

Guessing  at  truth,  and  picking  up,  or  here 

Or  there,  a  few  bright  fragments,  that  but  showed 

How  much  lay  undiscovered,  and  how  much 

Might  one  day  be  revealed  to  man,  when,  from 

A  loftier  Olympus  than  they  knew, 

One  should  descend,  to  teach  as  never  yet 

Philosopher  or  poet  had  them  taught : 

With  certainty  the  things  of  certainty 

Proclaiming,  from  no  fabled  oracle 

Of  Delphi  or  Dodona  ;  uttering, 

Not  the  "  I  think  "  of  Athens  or  of  Egypt, 

But  the  "  I  know  "  of  heaven  ;  saying  to  men, 

As  the  old  father  notes,  not  "  I  am  custom," 

Or  "  I  am  reason,"  but  with  majesty, 

"  I  am  the  truth  ;  all  wisdom  is  in  me." 

\  Fair  are  thy  slopes,  O  classic  Attica  ! 
Yet  in  these  palmy  days  of  ancient  thought 
And  earnest  questioning,  they  never  heard 
The  key-note  of  divine  philosophy, 
That  "  God  is  light ;  " — the  music  of  the  heart, 
Passing  all  other  music,  "  God  is  love." 
One  of  themselves,  a  prophet  of  their  own, 
He  of  Eleusis,  old  Euphorion's  son, 
Who  fought  at  Marathon  and  sung  at  Athens, 
Has  spoken  words  of  gravest  thoughtfulness, 


So  MY  OLD  LETTERS.  [line  640. 

Painting  in  stateliest  majesty  of  verse 

The  firmament  of  God,  the  rushing  winds, 

The  river-springs,  old  ocean's  countless  smile, 

Our  mother  earth,  the  sun's  all-seeing  eye, 

And  the  One  God,  invisible,  supreme  ; 

Describing  in  his  measured  roll  of  song 

The  rock-chained  Titan  on  the  sea-swept  cliff 

Of  barren  Caucasus,  condemned  and  lone, — 

The  vulture  ever  gnawing  at  his  heart, 

Till  the  great  gulf  of  yawning  earth  receive  him, 

And  he  descends  into  the  dread  abyss, 

With  the  strange  prophecy  proclaimed,  that  there 

He  must  remain,  until  from  heaven  some  god 

Go  down,  and,  entering  Hades  in  his  stead, 

Shall  bear  his  penalty  and  bring  him  up 

From  the  dread  Tartarus,  to  which  his  crime 

Of  God-defiance  and  self-will  had  doomed  him, — 

The  crime  of  stealing  light  from  heaven  against 

The  will  of  Him  who  made  him  what  he  was, 

And  gave  him  earth  for  his  inheritance. 

Yet  but  a  gleam  was  this  of  the  high  truth 

That  the  sick  conscience  of  humanity 

Had  long  been  groping  for,  to  heal  its  wounds, — 

A  guess  at  the  great  coming  fact,  on  which 

The  new  foundations  of  the  universe 

Were  to  be  laid, — God  manifest  in  flesh, 

The  Just  One  for  the  unjust  suffering  doom  ; — 

A  gleam,  a  guess,  which  penetrated  not 

The  long,  lone  darkness  which  o'erhung  that  land 

Of  wonder  and  of  loveliness,  where  once, 

Amid  the  clusters  of  its  marble  shrines, 


line  6;i.]  BOOK  VII.  181 

Man's  sorrowing  search  for  something  to  fill  up 

The  blank  within  his  soul,  found  resting-place 

In  the  cold  worship  of  the  unknown  God. 

There  was  a  fire  upon  the  altar  there 

Of  Pallas,  ever  burning  up  to  heaven  ; 

But  no  one  knew  its  meaning.    There  was  blood 

Of  consecrated  victims, — sprinkled  blood, 

And  outpoured  wine,  and  holy  festival ; 

But  no  one  guessed  their  import,  for  the  light 

Was  but  a  spark,  which  glimmered  and  was  gone. 

*  What  could  not  Greece  have  done,  if  intellect, 
Keen  as  the  sword  of  Pericles,  and  bright 
As  the  broad  evening-star  that  sets  upon 
The  sea  of  Salamis,  when  all  the  air 
Is  calm  as  heaven,  could  search  the  unknown  ether, 
And  bring  from  its  still  depths  the  long-sought  gems 
Of  everlasting  light  to  man  below  ? 
Or  dive  into  the  dread  eternal  deep, 
To  bring  up  pearls  which  would  enrich  for  ever 
The  human  spirit's  deepest  poverty  ? 

1  But  Greece  has  failed  ;  her  truest  and  her  best 
Have  owned  the  failure.     He  who  drank  the  hemlock, 
The  man  of  progress,  far  beyond  his  age, 
Philosophy's  first  martyr  and  her  last, 
Sighed  as  he  sat  upon  the  sterile  edge 
Of  the  great  sea  of  knowledge,  and  looked  o'er 
Its  mist-bewildered  face,  so  tempting-fair, 
Without  a  barque  or  skiff  to  navigate 
Its  glorious  regions,  or  explore  its  isles, 
Or  fetch  its  golden  fleece  from  realms  afar. 
11  All  that  I  know  is  that  I  nothing  know  : " 


1 82  MY  OLD  LETTERS.         [line  702. 

This  the  confession  of  the  noblest  spirit 
That,  in  these  four  mysterious  centuries, 
These  ages  of  God's  silence  and  man's  speech, 
Searched  all  the  depths  and  heights  of  finite  knowledge, 
And  with  calm  modesty  and  meekness  owned 
The  failure  of  a  lifetime's  solemn  search  ! 

'  Era  of  human  speech  and  thought,  all  song 
And  eloquence  and  overflow  of  mind, 
How  fair  thy  light,  and  yet  how  pale  its  ray ! 
Strewed  with  the  sparks  of  many  a  noble  torch 
Or  fire,  that  seemed  as  if  it  fain  would  burn, 
But  could  not  for  the  still  and  stagnant  air ; 
Gleams  of  a  sun  that  would  have  shone,  but  could  not ; 
Meteors  that  lighted  up  no  earthly  path, 
Nor  led  one  spirit  to  the  spirit's  home  ; 
Nor  bid  the  day-spring  rise  upon  our  race, 
Nor  gave  one  glimpse  of  resurrection-hope. 

'  Era  of  mighty  minds,  which  uncontrolled 
Roamed  over  wisdom's  widest  fields,  yet  plucked 
No  flowers  from  islands  of  the  blest,  no  balm 
Of  sweet  and  subtle  medicine  for  the  soul ; 
Which  breathed  the  scent  of  the  far-wandering  winds, 
Whose  breath  is  health,  and  yet  found  health  in  none. 

1  Noon  of  the  olden  earth, — if  such  we  may 
Call  your  pale  splendour,  hardly  worth  the  name 
Of  twilight, — vainly  didst  thou  struggle  with 
The  heavy  gloom  of  time,  evanishing, 
And  leaving  man  unblessed  and  undelivered. 
Ah,  surely  in  your  heavens  the  light  of  life 
Was  not, — the  sure  and  the  unchanging  life 
That  lightens  man  with  its  all-healing  rays, 


line  7330  BOOK  VII.  183 

And  shineth  on  unto  the  perfect  day! 
Love  was  not  in  your  temples  ;  and  your  gods 
Were  gods  of  vengeance,  despots  of  the  sky. 
We  look  to  you  in  vain  for  charity, — 
The  charity  that  suffers  long,  and  bids 
Defiance  to  all  hatred  or  revenge, — 
The  charity  that  gives  all  heaven  to  man, 
And  grudgeth  not  the  gift  beyond  all  price. 
Your  gods  had  other  things  to  do  than  love  ; 
They  had  to  feast,  to  quarrel,  and  to  hate. 
Your  Jove  was  but  the  demon  of  the  air, 
Shedding  on  earth  malignant  influence, 
And  watching  to  destroy.     You  taught  no  love, 
Nor  could  have  taught  it :  he  who  would  impart 
Love's  happy  lessons  must  himself  be  love, — 
Lesson  and  type  and  teacher  all  in  one. 

'The  old  Orient  ruled  the  body,  Greece  the  mind, 
And  Rome  the  will.     But  were  the  chains  of  sin 
Thus  broken,  or  the  spirit  lifted  up 
To  breathe  the  freer  and  diviner  air 
Of  everlasting  truth  and  holiness  ? 
Great  in  the  sword,  in  thought,  in  wit  and  song, 
Did  man  emerge  from  their  victorious  rule 
Nobler  in  being,  higher,  and  more  godlike? 
Or  was  this  globe  transformed  to  fruitfulness 
And  universal  beauty  by  their  touch  ? 

'  Thus  musing  on  the  failures  of  the  past, 
And  made  at  length  to  feel  how  impotent 
His  wisdom  and  his  zeal  against  the  powers, 
Invisible  and  visible,  of  ill, 
That  made  this  earth  a  chaos,  he  begins 


184  MY  OLD  LETTERS.         [line  764. 

To  think  of  light  above  his  own  ;  of  truth 
Which  in  the  end,  by  its  own  vital  force, 
Must  prove  omnipotent  in  conquering  ill ; 
Of  an  eternal  purpose  working  out, 
By  slow  but  certain  processes  below, 
A  better,  brighter  history  for  earth, 
In  which  himself  shall  have  a  part,  tho'  not 
The  proud  pre-eminence  that  once  he  hoped. 

'  The  once  fond  dreamer  now  has  found  his  place, 
And,  like  each  part  of  what  we  nature  call, 
Does  his  own  work,  and  fills  up  life  with  that 
For  which  it  had  been  given  him,  tho'  at  first 
In  his  wild  waywardness  he  saw  it  not. 
'Tis  a  true  life  that  now  he  lives  ;  a  life 
That  tells  upon  the  world,  as  tells  the  wind 
Invisibly  upon  the  swelling  sail ; 
As  tells  the  oar  upon  the  boat's  sure  progress. 
Brought  into  conflict  with  a  power  of  ill 
Beyond  his  strength  to  cope  with,  he  falls  back 
Upon  that  power  which  wields  the  wind  and  wave, 
That  rouses,  like  a  lion  from  its  lair, 
The  dormant  hurricane,  then  says,  "  Be  still," 
Or  bids  the  strong  cliff  countercheck  its  rage. 

1  Within  the  fortress  of  Almighty  strength 
He  hides  himself  when  tempests  are  too  strong  ; 
Or  goeth  forth  in  weakness,  yet  in  trust, 
To  wield  that  strength  against  the  mighty  foe. 
"They  say  that  prayer  is  vain,"  so  wrote  he  once  ; 
"  Or  at  the  best  a  needful  utterance 
Of  pleasant  feeling  or  of  pent-up  grief; 


line  794-]  BOOK  VII  185 

The  solemn  music  of  the  inner  man 

When  gazing  on  a  greater  than  himself. 

Not  so  to  me  did  it  appear :  I  saw 

That  if  there  be  a  God  there  must  be  prayer ; 

The  invisible  conversing  with  the  seen, 

The  seen  with  the  invisible  ;  the  child 

Clasping  the  parent's  hand,  and  looking  up 

For  succour  and  for  fellowship.     I  saw 

In  prayer  the  limits  of  my  narrow  being, 

The  line  where  finite  touches  infinite, 

And  where  the  seen  looks  out  on  the  unseen  ; 

The  point  where  God  meets  man  and  man  meets  God 

In  palpable  fellowship,  one  loving  heart 

Throbbing  upon  another  like  its  own  ; 

The  point  where  strength  meets  weakness,  weakness 

strength  ; 
Where  man  receiveth,  and  God  giveth  all 
That  man  can  ask  or  think  ;  that  wondrous  shrine 
Of  true  oracular  question  and  response. 
It  did  not  seem  to  me  incredible 
That  the  same  God  who  gave  me  this  vast  soul 
Should  speak  with  me,  and  suffer  me  to  speak 
With  Him,  as  friend  with  friend  ;  rather  would  it 
Have  seemed  incredible  that  He  who  made  me 
Should  bar  all  intercourse,  and  mock  the  soul 
That  He  had  made,  with  everlasting  silence, — 
Answering  no  question,  sitting  far  apart, 
Like  the  chill  statue  of  some  marble  god, 
Dumb  as  the  dead,  and  heedless  of  the  cries 
That  His  own  creatures  raise.     Rather  would  I 
Worship  the  vocal  sea,  or  fruitful  sun, 


1 86  MY  OLD  LETTERS.         [line  824. 

Or  speaking  star,  that,  with  its  love-bright  eye, 

Has  whispered  gladness  these  six  thousand  years 

To  troubled  man,  than  such  a  god  as  this, 

Who  made  me,  yet  who  spurns  me  from  His  presence; 

Who  knows  my  sorrows,  but  refuses  still 

To  let  me  pour  them  out  into  His  bosom  ; 

Who  hears  my  cries  as  tho'  He  heard  them  not ; 

My  woes  unpitied  and  unrecognised, 

Myself  a  wandering  atom,  made  in  sport, 

To  sport  with,  not  to  bless, — He  all  the  while 

Sitting  in  self-enjoyment  or  repose, 

Not  answering,  but  mocking  ;  at  the  best, 

Like  rock  that  sendeth  back  in  resonant  scorn 

The  useless  echo,  dying  in  mid-air." 

1  He  lived  to  bless  me ;  and  not  me  alone, 
But  others.     Trained  for  special  work  on  earth 
By  Him  who  needed  such  an  instrument, 
For  a  brief  season  he  fulfilled  his  day  ; 
He  did  his  work,  and  laid  himself  to  rest 
Upon  the  bosom  of  his  earthly  sire, 
Departing  with  the  golden  cloud,  that  melts 
From  the  still  blue  as  we  are  gazing  on  it, 
And  wondering,  as  we  gaze,  how  such  a  glory 
Should  ever  cease  to  be,  or,  having  ceased, 
Should  ever  re-appear  and  shine  anew 
With  its  old  glory  in  a  gentler  sky. 

1  Each  deathbed  is  a  mystery  and  a  fear, 
Even  when  the  sting  is  gone.     And  when  I  think 
Of  earth's  unnumbered  deathbeds,  which  each  day 
Draw  the  disconsolate  eyes  of  loving  friends 


LINE  854.]  BOOK   VII  187 

To  watch  the  couch  of  pain  and  weariness, 
I  say,  What  mean  these  rendings  of  the  heart  ? 
And  how  shall  I  unwind  my  tangled  steps 
From  the  dark  labyrinth  of  human  grief, 
And  brightly  rise  into  that  realm  of  life 
Where  what  we  love  shall  never  pine  and  die  ? 

1  So  did  I  reason  when  my  child  of  love, 
My  boy  of  sorrow  and  of  hope,  lay  down 
In  manhood's  prime  to  sleep  the  blessed  sleep. 
I  sat  beside  him  in  his  troubled  hours 
Of  long,  long  pain.     Dear  hours  of  watchfulness 
To  me,  in  that  dim  chamber  where  he  tossed 
From  night  to  night,  until  the  angel  came 
That  bore  him  hence.     Peace  like  a  hidden  spring 
Welled  up  within  him,  tho'  the  flesh  was  weak ; 
The  cross  was  lighting  up  the  vale  of  death 
With  its  all-stedfast  radiance.     Joy  was  there. 
The  piercing  nails  had  gone  thro'  other  hands, 
And  his  had  not  a  scar.     The  rending  thorns 
Had  torn  another's  brow,  and  he  was  free. 
The  angry  spear  had  in  another's  side 
Sheathed  its  sharp  point,  and  he  unwounded  lay. 
He  tossed  and  moaned  ;  then  looking  up  and  up, 
As  if  he  saw  into  the  far  unseen, 
Sighed  to  be  free.     Once  and  again  I  heard 
His  nunc  dimittis  breathed  from  pale,  parched  lips. 
Oh,  my  chained  eagle !  when  wilt  thou  take  wing? 
I  said,  tho'  loth  to  part.     At  length  there  came 
The  messenger  of  life  to  bid  him  go. 
He  went  from  earth  ;  could  I  but  wish  him  joy  ? 
I  closed  his  eyes  and  smoothed  his  silken  hair, 


iSS  MY  OLD  LETTERS.         [line  885. 

Then  kissed  his  forehead,  laid  my  lips  on  his, 

With  the  close  pressure  of  heart-breaking  love. 

It  was  a  bridal  kiss, — just  such  an  one 

A  mother  gives  her  darling  when  about 

To  leave  the  dwelling  of  her  childhood  for 

An  untried  home,  where  love  will  sweeten  all. 

A  few  sore  struggles  brought  deliverance, 

And  then  the  sweet  long  calm  :  the  storm  was  done  ; 

'Twas  but  the  rattle  of  the  falling  links  ; 

The  chain  was  broken,  and  the  spirit  free. 

He  did  not  weep  ;  the  dying  never  weep, 

The  tread  of  coming  death  dries  up  the  fount ; 

He  did  not  weep,  'twas  I  that  shed  the  tears. 

'  Farewell !  I  follow  soon  ;  then  we  shall  meet 
Where  the  full  fellowship  of  heart  with  heart 
Shall  never  sunder  as  they  sunder  here, — 
Shall  never  lose  their  freshness  and  their  joy. 

1  How  poor  his  death  has  left  me,  I  must  not 
Essay  to  tell ;  how  dark  my  dwelling  now, 
Since  the  sad  hour  when  its  last  light  went  out, 
None  save  myself  can  know.     Few  understand 
Deep  sorrow  ;  fewer  care  to  be  beside  it ; 
For  the  world  loves  not  sackcloth,  hides  its  eyes 
From  dust  and  ashes,  fears  the  name  of  death, 
Shuns  the  mute  mourner  in  his  day  of  tears, 
Thrusts  away  all  that  mars  its  festive  mirth, 
Or  mocks  the  music  of  its  reckless  song. 

1  Thus  sorrow  struck  me  with  its  two-edged  sword, 
And  life  was  rent  asunder  ;  one-half  here, 
And  one  above,  with  those  who  have  gone  up 


line  915.]  BOOK  VIL  1S9 

To  wait  for  me  till  we  shall  meet  on  high. 

The  cloud  is  o'er  me,  and  within  I  feel 

The  daily  bleeding  of  a  hidden  wound, 

That  neither  time  nor  skill  avail  to  stanch. 

Often  I  go  to  their  last  place  of  rest 

Beneath  the  turf ;  last  place  of  earthly  rest 

Till  life  shall  come,  and  all  my  buried  gems 

Be  plucked  from  the  old  spoiler's  robber-grasp. 

I  walk  amid  the  tombstones,  touching  each 

With  this  old  staff,  as  one  who  drops  a  line 

Into  some  ancient  well,  and  listens  hard 

To  learn  how  deep  it  is.     For  graves  are  deep  ; 

Deeper  than  eyes  have  seen  ;  each  one  of  them 

Linked  with  the  depths  and  heights  of  realms  unknown. 

And  as  we  look  at  them,  or  hear  the  voice 

Of  the  low  wind,  that,  as  it  passes  o'er, 

Makes  melancholy  music,  we  go  in 

Thro'  the  low  gates  into  the  wide  expanse 

Of  light  that  lies  beyond,  into  whose  joy 

Our  loved  have  entered,  beckoning  us  to  come. 

'  We  love  to  hide  our  grief,  or  fear  to  show  it, 
As  if  too  sacred  for  the  common  eye  ; 
Yet  not  the  less  we  cherish  it ;  perhaps 
To  give  it  out  to  God  in  prayer,  to  man 
In  song,  and  to  ourselves  in  silent  thought. 
Each  dwelling  has  its  cloud,  without,  within  ; 
Earth's  proudest  cities  know  what  sorrow  is. 
And  yet  it  speaks  not  in  the  multitude 
Of  voices  that  we  hear  ;  we  walk  the  streets, 
Yet  see  it  not ;  we  pass  its  very  door, 
Yet  hear  it  not.     Deep,  deep  down  hides  the  grief 


190  MY  OLD  LETTERS.  [line  946. 

That  is  the  truest ;  we  must  seek  for  it 
If  we  would  find  it  and  bind  up  its  wounds. 
Joy  puts  the  trumpet  to  its  lips,  and  makes 
The  city  ring  with  shout  and  song  and  mirth. 

1  But  'twill  not  now  be  long.    The  storms  are  done, 
And  the  last  breaking  wave  has  spent  itself. 
The  winds  are  dying  into  peace,  and  morn 
Smiles  down  upon  me  from  the  hills  of  home. 
Life's  weather-broken  barque  has  safely  reached 
The  long-sought  bay  ;  the  worn-out  keel  at  length 
Grazes  the  strand.     I  leap  to  land,  and  find 
Myself  at  last  upon  the  stormless  shore.' 


BOOK    VIII. 


1  From  this  calm  desert  let  me  date  these  lines ' 
(So  writes  a  wanderer  whom  we  knew  in  youth, 
Who  after  uneventful  years  lay  down 
To  rest  beneath  Geneva's  sycamores). 
1  The  sands  are  all  about  me  ;  the  nude  rocks 
With  checkered  peaks  are  watching  for  the  dawn, 
Whose  tide  of  radiance  now  begins  to  flow, 
After  the  ebb  of  night,  and  to  steal  up 
With  sweet  obtrusion  on  the  shaded  air. 

1 1  am  alone  ;  and  for  a  time  at  least 
I  love  to  be  so.     Cares  are  for  the  crowd, 
And  here  I  part  with  them.     Not  that  I  turn 
My  back  upon  the  race,  as  if  to  leave 
All  love  behind  me ;  and  yet  would  I  seek 
A  time  of  breathing  and  a  place  of  rest, 
To  fit  me  for  the  after-work  of  life, 
The  service,  or  the  trial,  or  the  toil ; 
And  here,  in  this  unutterable  calm, 
I  find  the  freshening  which  my  spirit  needs. 

'  I  watch  in  silence  every  change,  and  mark 
Yon  burst  of  radiance  from  the  unrisen  sun, 
That  like  a  billow  breaks  against  the  morn  ; 
Then  springing  upwards  in  divided  wreaths, 


192  MY  OLD  LETTERS.  [line  24. 

Scatters  its  spray  of  beauty  o'er  the  hills, 
Braiding  with  its  unearthly  gold  the  clouds 
That  hang  like  tresses  on  the  brow  of  dawn. 
All  leisurely  the  day  is  coming  up, 
Like  one  assured  of  welcome  ;  o'er  the  sands 
The  languid  under-breeze  is  stealing  by, 
Scarce  ruffling  one  of  these  acacia  leaves. 
O  calm  without  a  name,  so  sweet,  so  deep ! 
O  wondrous  air,  so  sparkling,  so  serene ! 

*  The  skies  are  bluest  when  they  bend  above 
The  blue  wide  ocean  ;  they  are  purest  when 
They  stretch  across  a  wilderness  like  this, 
Where  man  is  not,  and  where  no  city-smoke 
Stifles  the  noon,  and  dulls  its  trembling  blue. 
Man  is  polluting  all  the  streams  of  earth  : 
Its  very  seas  send  shoreward  with  a  sigh 
The  murky  wave,  no  longer  hyaline. 
A  veil,  but  not  of  night,  nor  swift  eclipse, 
Bedims  the  sun.     Beauty  and  odour  flee 
The  pale-faced  flowers.     With  boughs  of  tarnished  green 
The  forests  droop.     The  showers  have  lost  their  freshness, 
The  snow  its  maiden  splendour,  and  the  breeze, 
Or  from  the  rising  or  the  sinking  sun, 
Comes,  with  its  tainted  breath,  to  blanch  the  cheek 
And  take  the  blossom  from  youth's  budding  spring. 

1  But  here,  in  this  untainted  wilderness, 
The  far-spread  poison  ceases  ;  not  a  trace 
Of  living  influence,  for  good  or  ill, 
To  tell  of  him  whose  hand,  however  skilful, 
Ne'er  touches  but  it  mars,  or  leaves  the  trail 
As  of  a  serpent  on  the  soil  it  tills  ! 


line  55.]  BOOK  VIII.  193 

1  Land  of  lone  silence,  over  which  there  breaks 
No  city-murmur  in  the  busy  morn, 
When  millions  rise  to  labour ;  whose  still  nights 
(So  still  that  one  might  hear  the  moonbeams  fall, 
Or  the  soft  dew  alight,  hour  after  hour, 
Upon  the  acacia  leaves  or  rittem  bloom) 
No  sighing  sick-bed  and  no  tears  disturb  ; 
Where  neither  death  nor  life  is  seen  around  ; 
Where  no  voice  meets  you  with  its  "  Hush,  be  still, 
For  death  is  on  that  couch,  within  these  curtains  : 
Tread  softly  lest  you  should  disturb  the  dead." 
Land  of  strange  muteness,  where  the  camel's  hoof 
Or  foot  of  the  half-sandalled  Bedawi 
Raises  no  echo  ;  where  the  bleat  of  flocks, 
Or  shepherd's  call,  or  song  of  sleepless  streams, 
Is  all  unheard  !     How  I  stand  here  and  gaze 
In  silence,  like  your  own,  upon  these  wastes, 
As  if  afraid  to  breathe  ;  then  looking  up 
Into  your  lucid  heavens,  as  if  to  scale 
The  summit  of  that  bright  miraculous  arch, 
Whose  keystone  is  the  star  that  never  sets, 
Whose  base  the  sweep  of  these  unending  sands. 

1  This  is  Arabia  !     That  the  mount  of  God, 
Whose  granite  peaks,  bathed  in  descending  flame, 
Once  shook  as  God  came  down,  and  the  loud  blast 
Of  trumpets  filled  the  unaccustomed  air. 
Here  would  I  sit  beneath  the  spiky  boughs 
Of  this  acacia,  and  gaze  all  around. 
The  tread  of  millions  once  amid  these  rocks 
Was  heard  ;  but  that  has  long  since  passed  away. 
A  liberated  nation  sung  its  songs, 

N 


94  MY  OLD  LETTERS.  [line  86. 

Reared  its  new  altar  here,  and  daily  drenched 

These  dead  dry  sands  with  sacrificial  blood. 

But  every  stain  of  blood  or  trace  of  ashes 

Has  vanished  in  the  wind  and  rain  of  ages. 

A  liberated  nation  sung  its  songs 

Amid  these  valleys,  but  the  strain  has  died. 

A  noble  priesthood  waved  its  censers  here, 

Fair  with  fresh  gold,  and  glistening  with  new  gems, 

Sending  from  these  into  the  virgin  air 

A  fragrance  never  known  on  earth  before, 

Sweetness  as  perfect  as  it  was  divine. 

1  And  here  the  pillared  glory,  dwelling-place, 
Chariot,  and  throne  of  Him  who  fills  the  heavens, 
Blazed  in  its  cloudy  brightness,  day  and  night ; 
A  sun,  a  shield,  a  keeper,  and  a  guide ! 
It,  too,  is  gone,  and  the  sun  smites  the  sand, 
Without  a  cloud  between  :  the  wilderness 
Is  poorer  than  before  ;  for  He  who  pitched 
For  forty  years  His  tent  above  its  wastes 
Has  left  it,  to  return  no  more  until 
He  comes  as  new-Creator  of  the  earth. 
Then  shall  this  desert  blossom  as  the  rose  ; 
Its  rocks  shall  gush  with  living  springs  and  streams ; 
The  cedar  and  the  myrtle  and  the  olive 
Shall  cover  its  grey  sands  ;  like  Eden  then, 
Earth's  long-lost  garden,  shall  it  all  become, 
And  these  fierce  hungry  rocks,  like  skeletons 
Of  the  dead  mountains  of  a  former  world, 
That  rise  on  every  side,  shall  clothe  themselves 
With  verdure  such  as  Sharon  knoweth  not, 
Nor  Lebanon  in  greenest  springs  hath  seen. 


line  1 17-]  BOOK  VIII.  195 

'  Here  the  new  river  rushed  from  the  deep  cleft 
Of  the  parched  flint  to  quench  a  nation's  thirst, 
Went  thro'  the  desert  with  the  chosen  race, 
Then  disappeared,  in  silent  mystery, 
To  the  deep  source  from  which  it  first  welled  out, 
Its  happy  embassy  of  love  fulfilled  ; 
As  if  the  angel  of  the  waters  had 
Beckoned  it  forth,  then  beckoned  it  away. 

1  Here,  too,  the  unknown  manna  daily  rained 
Celestial  food,  angelic  sustenance  ; 
And  man  on  earth  did  eat  the  bread  of  heaven  ; 
A  better  than  the  best  of  earthly  food, 
And  pledge  of  food  more  true  and  more  divine, 
The  bread  of  God,  the  everlasting  bread 
Which  whoso  eateth  hungers  never  more  ; 
Bread  for  the  famine  of  a  hungry  world, 
The  soul's  true  provender,  which  giveth  life 
Above  all  human  life  to  them  who  eat. 
Be  that  bread  ever  mine  ;  and  let  all  else 
Pass  by  untasted  ;  nothing  else  can  fill; 
No  more  I  need  ;  no  less  can  satisfy. 

'  This  way  the  millions  marched,  and  here  they 
rested, — 
The  host  of  the  oppressed,  set  free,  and  yet 
Unused  to  battle,  with  the  broken  links 
Of  Egypt's  fetters  on  their  weary  limbs. 
Here  the  Phoenician  Amalek  swept  down 
For  spoil  and  havoc.     On  yon  hill,  that  like 
A  sentinel  looks  down  upon  this  plain, 
The  Hebrew  leader  sat  with  lifted  rod, 
Till,  like  the  sand  before  the  hurricane, 


196  MY  OLD  LETTERS.         [line  147. 

The  desert  foe  was  scattered  to  the  night, 
And,  like  the  Egyptian  chariots,  seen  no  more. 

1  Here  stood  the  altar,  where  the  blood  of  peace 
Was  shed  and  sprinkled  ;  meeting-place  between 
The  nation  and  its  God,  where  heaven  and  earth 
Embraced  each  other  ;  the  long-wandered  son 
And  the  still  loving  Father  reconciled, 
Each  in  the  other's  arms  fast  locked  together, 
Only  the  blood  between,  at  that  strange  spot 
Of  the  eternal  peacemaking,  where  death 
Gives  place  to  life,  and  love  gets  unchecked  vent 
To  all  its  yearnings  o'er  the  sons  of  men. 
O  tide  of  love,  flow  in  and  on,  till  I 
Am  covered  with  thy  gladness !     Thee  I  need 
To  bear  me  thro'  the  conflict.     Righteous  love, 
Fill  this  unrighteous  soul ;  and  let  thy  joy 
Abide  with  me,  as  at  the  altar  I 
In  peace  stand  looking  on  the  face  of  God. 

1  Here  was  the  feast  of  love,  where  God  and  man 
Sat  down  together,  of  one  common  loaf 
Eating,  and  of  one  cup,  with  wine  of  heaven 
Filled  day  by  day,  partaking  in  their  joy. 
The  crowds  of  earth  far  off :  no  Egypt  now 
To  break  the  silence  of  these  lonely  sands, 
Or  mar  the  intercourse,  or  draw  the  heart 
Of  man  from  God  by  its  attractive  grace. — 
O  earth,  how  strong !  O  human  face,  how  fair  ! 
How  treacherous  the  beauty  of  all  things 
Beneath  the  light  of  this  soft-smiling  sun  ! 
O  comeliness  of  crcaturehood,  what  power 
Is  in  thee  to  bewilder  !     Voices  sweet 


line  178.]  BOOK  VIII.  197 

Of  man  and  woman,  how  ye  win  the  ear, 
And  close  it  against  melody  divine  ! 
I  feel  that  I  must  be  alone,  ere  I 
Be  not  alone  ;  and  it  is  here  I  find 
The  one  companionship  that  satisfies ; 
It  is  the  crowd  that  makes  the  solitude ; 
This  desert  is  not  loneliness  to  me. 

*  Strange  legends,  too,  of  later  days,  affix 
Their  marvels  to  each  wizard  cliff  around. 
Yon  crimson  peak,  and  yon  tall  yellow  spire  ; 
And  that  green  belt  that  girds  the  precipice, 
And  these  lone  palms  of  moonlight,  that  drink  up 
The  scanty  moisture  of  this  burning  soil ; 
This  solitary  graveyard  with  its  stones, 
Unhewn  and  interfringed  with  desert-broom, 
Whose  history  no  wanderer  can  tell ; 
That  dried-up  well,  to  which  the  traveller  comes 
In  vain  for  water  to  his  withered  lips  ; 
That  pale-faced  rock,  that  like  a  minaret 
Lifts  itself,  but  on  which  or  day  or  night 
No  watcher  sits  and  no  muezzin  calls, — 
All  have  their  names  and  stories.    Well  they  seem 
Fitted  for  fable,  so  magnificent 
And  so  unearthly  do  they  show  themselves 
In  starlight  or  in  sunshine.     Not  the  like 
Doth  earth  contain  of  haggard  majesty. 

1  That  old  fantastic  ruin  is  the  place 
Of  buried  gold  ;  and  underneath  that  rock 
Are  gardens  which  would  make  a  Paradise 
(So  tells  the  Bedawi  the  solemn  tale 


i9S  MY  OLD  LETTERS.         [line  208. 

His  fathers,  and  his  father's  fathers  told). 

On  yon  weird  boulder  strange  lights  have  been  seen 

By  wanderers,  that  point  to  hidden  gems. 

That  cairn  contains  the  bones  of  one  who  left 

A  name  for  blood  behind  him,  and  on  it 

Each  Arab,  as  he  passes,  pours  his  curse. 

That  other  heap  retains  a  gentler  name, 

To  which  with  softer  voice  he  says,  Lie  still. 

1  They  say  that  to  yon  peak,  that  shooteth  up 
Like  rugged  splinter  of  a  giant's  lance, 
And  sparkles  in  the  blue  of  awful  night 
As  if  some  star  had  lighted  on  its  top, 
Two  maidens  climbed,  each  with  a  broken  heart, 
And,  in  the  frenzy  of  love's  dark  despair, 
Twining  their  raven  tresses  into  one 
Indissoluble  braid,  with  close-linked  arms 
Flung  themselves  down  that  hideous  pinnacle, 
Inviting  all  the  vultures  of  the  rocks 
To  come  and  feed  upon  their  quivering  limbs. 

'  Close  by  yon  tiny  spring,  that  wanders  out 
From  the  bare  slope,  and  like  an  angel  smiles 
In  the  brown  desert,  rises  sharp  and  high 
A  ponderous  wedge  of  everlasting  rock, 
Barring  all  access  once.     A  sword,  men  say, 
(Men  to  whom  fable  is  bright  history, 
And  who  have  clothed  their  rocks  with  glowing  dreams), 
A  swift  miraculous  sword  clave  it  in  twain, 
And  formed  a  gateway  never  to  be  closed, 
Thro'  which  the  wanderer  might  pass  in  and  drink 
Of  the  clear  water,  as  it  shines  and  smiles  ; 
A  thing  of  life  in  this  lone  world  of  death. 


line  239.]  BOOK  VIII.  199 

Fair  fountain,  clearer  than  Bandusian  spring, 
Tho'  rocks  be  all  thy  shelter,  and  the  sand 
Thy  only  margin  !     Yet  a  clearer  fount 
I  know,  from  deeper  rocks  than  these  upwelling, 
To  cheer  the  desert  with  its  crystal  flow. 

1  They  point  to  two  strange  cells,  the  one  hard  by 
The  other,  where  still  lie  in  ghastliness 
The  bones  of  two  who  sought  to  spend  their  lives 
In  prayer.     A  chain,  reaching  from  cell  to  cell, 
Linked  them,  and  when  the  one  lay  down  to  rest, 
The  hard  chain  drew  the  other  up  to  pray. 
Thus  day  and  night  they  toiled  thro'  a  dark  life, 
Amid  the  echoes  of  these  solitudes  ; 
As  if  to  pray  were  better  than  to  do  ; 
As  if  to  groan  were  better  than  to  love  ; 
As  if  the  God,  upon  whose  altar  day 
By  day  they  laid  their  never-ending  cries, 
Were  some  stern  Jupiter,  who  loved  them  not, 
And  would  not  answer  them  nor  heed  their  tears  ; 
Or  some  gaunt  desert-Moloch,  whose  delight 
Was  but  to  feed  on  human  agony, 
And  drink  the  dismal  music  of  despair. 

1  Enough  of  legends,  be  they  false  or  true  ; 
Turn  to  the  real,  the  present,  and  the  fair. 
See  this  lone  valley,  with  its  pillared  palms, 
Each  a  tall  minaret  of  waving  green, 
With  shrub  and  underwood  thick  intertwined, 
Untrimmed  and  shaggy  ;  tamarisk  and  thorn  ; 
The  sacred  seyal,  clothed  with  pilgrim  rags  ; 
The  pliant  rittem,  with  its  hidden  flowers  ; 
A  gay,  sweet  garden,  hedged  with  horrid  cliffs. 


200  MY  OLD  LETTERS.         [line  270. 

Peaks  of  all  shapes  and  heights  are  here  ;  some  dark, 
Like  wing  of  desert-raven,  and  some  bright, 
Like  knightly  helmet  with  its  vizor  down, 
Flashing  afar  the  sheen  of  burnished  steel 
Midway  in  heaven  to  the  responsive  sun. 

'  Here  may  I  sit,  in  the  palm-shaded  grove, 
So  unlike  all  the  wilderness  beside, 
And  dreaming,  listen  to  the  nightingale, 
Safe  from  the  sandstorm  or  the  blinding  heat, 
Yet  still  enjoying  in  the  forest  shade 
The  deep,  delicious  sunshine,  as  it  quivers 
Along  these  sands  or  round  these  grim  old  cliffs, 
Or,  hovering  gently  like  a  weary  bird, 
Sinks  silently  to  rest  amid  the  palms. 

'  Here  may  I  sit  and  think  of  home  again, 
My  western  home,  far  greener  than  this  grove, 
With  its  soft  sward  and  mountain  rills,  that  know 
No  dearth  nor  drought,  still  flowing  in  their  joy, 
Silver  and  gold  and  crystal  all  in  one  ; 
Tho'  without  vine  or  palm  or  sycamore, 
Or  olive  with  its  sombre  green  ;  and  tho' 
Without  a  nightingale  to  cheer  the  dark, 
Or  chant  its  gladness  to  the  listening  stars. 
These  heavens  are  clear,  and  the  swift  sun  comes  up, 
With  scarce  a  twilight,  like  a  ball  of  fire, 
Then  goeth  down  with  like  unshaded  blaze. 
Yes  ;  they  arc  clear, — too  clear  for  those  whose  eyes 
Have  gazed  on  the  magnificence  of  cloud 
That  fills  the  concave  of  our  northern  skies, 
The  wondrous  Obcrland  above  our  heads. 
Bluer,  perhaps,  than  ours,  but  shallower  far 


line  301.]  BOOK   VIII.  201 

These  desert  heavens  ;  how  low,  each  brilliant  night, 
Upon  the  horizon  rests  the  constant  star 
Of  midnight, — star  of  the  unsetting  pole  ! 

1  Nor  books  are  here,  nor  man;  yet  man  and  books, 
With  all  that  made  them  dear  of  love  or  truth, 
I  can  recall ;  the  thoughts  of  other  days, 
My  own  or  those  of  others,  pass  before  me, 
Recorded  in  this  volume,  which  I  bear 
About  with  me  in  journeyings,  to  link 
My  studious  days  with  those  of  idleness. 

1 "  They  say  the  cypress  tree  "  (so  read  I  here 
The  thoughts  of  former  hours),  "  if  once  'tis  cut, 
Puts  forth  no  green  again.     They  say  the  palm 
Grows  best  when  loaded.     Be  my  symbol,  then, 
The  palm  and  not  the  cypress.     I  would  prize 
The  daily  discipline  that  works  its  way 
Into  the  secret  chambers  of  the  soul, 
To  purify  my  being  and  my  life. 
O  solemn  fast-days  of  the  Church  of  God, 
When  the  soul  rises  above  earth,  and  seeks 
A  purer  sunshine  than  this  world  can  give, 
Let  me  enjoy  you  while  the  world  feasts  on 
In  song  and  laughter,  heedless  of  its  sin. 

'"Four  thorns,  'tis  said,  are  needful  to  make  up 
A  good  man's  life,  a  true  man's  character/ — 
In  front,  behind,  and  one  on  either  side. 
Which  of  the  wise  or  great  has  been  without  them  ? 
Pressure  and  pain  and  toil  consolidate 
The  feeble  will,  and  root  the  unrooted  soul." 

' "  Deep  sorrow  is  God's  loving  messenger, 
Tho'  clothed  in  sackcloth,  with  a  wreath  of  thorns 


202  MY  OLD  LETTERS.         [line  332. 

Round  his  pale  brow,  and  his  despatches  filled 
With  evil  tidings  ;  for  he  loves  and  loves  not : 
He  knocketh  calmly  at  the  gate,  and  hands 
His  missive  in,  but  speaketh  not  a  word. 
How  terrible  his  silence,  would  we  say  ! 
Oh,  would  that  he  would  speak,  and  let  us  know 
From  the  beginning  what  his  message  bears 
Of  worst  or  best,  without  the  slow  suspense 
That  tears  up  life  and  wastes  the  weary  frame. 

1 "  The  men  of  old,  the  wise  in  thought  and  speech, 
Who  love  to  knit  in  one  the  fair  and  true, 
Tell  that  the  myrtle  carried  in  the  hand 
Turneth  the  traveller's  weakness  into  strength  : 
I  need  the  myrtle,  for  my  strength  is  small, — 
The  tree  which  giveth  life  to  all  who  touch." 

1 "  Sound  tests  the  vessel  and  reveals  the  flaw. 
So  does  our  speech  reveal  us,  as  said  well 
The  orator  of  Athens  ;  and  a  greater 
Searches  the  fool  with  the  unwelcome  test, 
And  bids  us  know  him  by  his  empty  words. 
The  idle  speech,  the  idle  silence  too, 
Must  both  one  day  be  reckoned  for  by  us : 
I  know  not  which  containeth  most  of  ill." 

' "  It  is  the  little  things  of  daily  life 
That  test  us  and  that  tell  us  what  we  are, 
Unfolding  both  to  others  and  ourselves 
The  deepest  secrets  of  the  inner  man. 
If  thou  wouldst  know  thyself,  take  up  and  read 
The  little  things  of  life,  and  thou  shalt  find 
In  them  the  true  expression  of  the  man. 
The  sap  ascends,  invisible  and  silent ; 


line  363.]  BOOK  VI11.  203 

Light  does  its  miracles  without  a  voice  ; 
The  forest  putteth  forth  its  thousand  buds 
By  stealth,  and  day  without  a  trumpet-note 
Supplants  the  night ;  the  air  leans  down 
On  the  subjacent  earth,  and  yet  its  fields 
Feel  not  the  pressure,  nor  resent  the  load. 
So  be  our  life, — a  silent  energy, 
An  unseen  potency  of  useful  love. 
Be  what  thou  seem'st,  and  let  that  ever  be 
The  best  and  truest ;  wrong  not  by  pretence. 
Earth's  deadliest  aconite,  I  know,  is  plucked 
From  out  its  greenest  fields  ;  beware  lest  thou, 
With  a  fair-spoken  lip  of  eloquence, 
Or  quiet  sweetness,  be  the  deadly  bane. 

* "  As  in  the  God-appointed  sacrifice, 
Laid  upon  Israel's  altars  long  ago, 
No  honey,  sweetest  of  all  earthly  sweets, 
Was  to  be  mingled  ;  as  the  bitter  herb 
Gave  zest  to  Israel's  feast ;  so  with  our  life, 
The  life  of  strangers  ;  'tis  the  bitter  now, 
The  sweet  hereafter  ;  tribulation  here, 
And  then  the  exceeding  weight  of  joy  for  ever. 

1 "  In  this  low  world  of  shadows  and  of  death, 
This  earth,  I  mean,  beneath  yon  silent  sun, 
Where  evil  doeth  battle  with  the  good, 
And  fills  our  air  with  strife's  bewildering  gloom, 
Sorrow  itself  becomes  our  brightest  torch, 
As  if  impregnated  with  light  from  heaven. — 
Torch  of  the  desert,  what  do  I  not  owe 
To  thee  and  to  thy  calm  unearthly  light ! 
Torch  of  the  midnight,  bright  when  all  is  dark, 


204  MY  OLD  LETTERS.         [line  394. 

Fling  out  thy  radiance  on  this  pilgrim  band  ; 
Illumine  these  our  perilous  rough  paths, 
Until  the  waste  is  traversed,  and  the  day 
Breaks  in  its  splendour  o'er  the  eternal  plains, 
Thro'  which  the  living  streams  in  gladness  flow." 

'  "  I  rest,  yet  rise  ;  I  toil,  yet  am  refreshed ; 
I  may  not  tarry  till  my  work  is  done, 
I  would  go  forth  to  labour  while  'tis  day, 
And  then  withdraw  into  myself,  like  flowers 
At  sunset,  ready  for  the  joyous  dawn. 
Rather  would  I  be  like  the  fabled  bird 
That  sleeps  on  wing  ;  or  like  the  earnest  flowers, 
Sleepless  exhaling  fragrance  all  around ! 
Be  one  or  many,  yet  be  all  thyself; 
True  to  thy  being,  give  that  being  out, 
And  let  it  tell  upon  the  world  around. 
As  the  split  sunbeam  spreads  its  sevenfold  glow, 
So  spread  out  all  thyself  in  happy  light 
Upon  the  clouds,  which  else  would  all  be  gloom." 

'  But  I  must  rise  and  go  ;  elsewhere,  amid 
Fresher  and  greener  beauty,  to  sit  down 
And  tell  you  more  of  what  this  earth  contains  ; 
For  earth  is  fair,  tho'  once  we  know  'twas  fairer, 
And  will  be  fairer  still  in  days  to  come. 

'  I  am  in  Egypt, — that  is  her  high  sun, 
These  her  gaunt  palms,  and  this  her  brimming  Nile! 
Here,  resting  by  this  old  imperial  stream, 
This  majesty  and  pride  of  waters,  where 
Antiquity  has  cast  her  deepest  shadow, — 


line  423.]  BOOK   VIII.  205 

Where,  like  a  lion  from  his  lair,  it  looks 
Out  from  each  obelisk  and  pyramid, 
I  sit  and  muse,  strewing  without  an  aim 
Upon  the  dusky  tremor  of  its  wave, 
That  like  a  marble  pavement  spreadeth  out, 
The  light  acacia  leaves  that  hang  around, 
And  mark  how  quietly  they  pass  away, 
Without  a  whirl  or  eddy,  down  the  sunshine. 

'  Egypt,  thy  watch-towers  are  the  Pyramids, 
That  battle  with  the  spirit  of  the  waste  ; 
Thy  bulwarks,  the  immeasurable  sands 
That  stretch  on  either  side ;  thy  treasure-house 
Of  wealthy  the  wondrous  river,  which,  unfed 
By  tributary  waters,  year  by  year 
Flushes  thy  sandy  wastes  with  fruitful  soil. 
O  Rhone  and  Danube,  rivers  of  high  name, 
Tiber  and  Tigris,  venerable  streams, 
Whose  banks  are  histories  of  kings  and  realms, 
What  are  ye  all  beside  this  mighty  flood  ? 
Like  palm  beside  the  sycamore,  or  like 
The  cedar  in  some  olive-grove,  this  stream 
Flows,  from  each  river  of  the  earth  apart, 
Without  its  fellow  of  the  east  or  west, 
The  nurse  and  mother  of  old  Memphis  still. — 
Sea  of  the  desert,  what  a  shore  is  thine ! 
Cities  and  palaces  and  giant  fanes ; 
Pillar  and  obelisk  and  architrave  ; 
With  rock-hewn  chambers,  whose  well-sculptured  walls 
Tell  the  great  stories  of  old  Mizraim's  youth, 
Each  in  itself  a  temple  or  a  palace  ! 
Still  on  thou  movest  in  thy  river-march, 


206  MY  OLD  LETTERS.         [line  454. 

Unchanged  amid  the  changes  of  thy  kings, — 
Thyself  a  king  more  kingly  than  they  all, 
Thy  dynasty  but  one  from  first  to  last. 
Still  from  the  Nubian  snows  thou  comest  down, 
As  each  bright  summer  bids  thee  overflow, 
To  do  thine  ancient  work,  and  sternly  urge 
Thy  annual  battle  with  the  sterile  sand  ; 
Still  driving  back  the  desert  on  each  side, 
And,  in  thy  stately  progress  to  the  sea, 
Quickening  the  dead  and  barren  soil  to  life, 
Till  the  grey  desert  smiles,  and  the  lean  dust 
Wakes  into  waving  corn  and  blushing  flowers. 

1  Among  the  lemon-groves  of  Jaffa  now, 
Beneath  her  autumn  palms,  whose  dropping  clusters 
Glow  in  the  fiery  noon,  all  bronze  and  gold, 
I  wander,  drinking  in  the  fragrance  deep, 
And  looking  out  upon  the  fitful  sea 
Of  old  Philistia  gleaming  in  the  west. 
Oldest  of  cities,  linked  with  sacred  truth 
And  classic  fable  from  thy  youngest  dawn  ; 
By  name  the  beautiful,  surpassing  fair, 
As  seen  by  mariner  who  steers  his  course 
From  the  far  Occident,  where  summer's  sun 
Goes  down  in  the  long  reach  of  green  and  gold, 
Flinging  the  spent  shafts  of  his  dying  light 
Full  on  thy  face !     Nor  less  I  call  thee  fair 
When  wandering  'ncath  thy  shady  orange-boughs, 
That  scent  the  still  noon-air ;  or  'ncath  thy  palms, 
That  wave  in  beauty  to  the  clear  March  noon, 
And  shake  their  foliage  o'er  thy  spray-swept  beach. 


line  484.]  BOOK   VIII.  207 

Oldest  of  cities  !     Sidon  of  the  north, 
And  Kirjath  Arba  of  the  rocky  south, 
And  Egypt's  Zoan  cannot  equal  thee. 
Andromade  and  Perseus,  if  the  lay 
Of  classic  story  speak  the  truth,  were  here  ; 
Monarchs  of  Palestine,  and  kings  of  Tyre, 
And  the  brave  Maccabee  have  all  been  here ; 
And  Cestius  with  his  Roman  plunderers ; 
And  Saladin  and  Baldwin,  and  the  host 
Of  fierce  crusaders  from  the  British  north, 
Once  shook  their  swords  above  thee,  and  thy  blood 
Flowed  down  like  water  to  thine  ancient  sea. 
First  city  where  the  European  wave 
Of  superstitious  battle  broke  in  rage 
Over  those  surf-washed  rocks  that  guard  thy  haven. 
Last  city  whence  the  dark  crusading  tide 
Ebbed  back  in  broken  sullenness  and  gloom, 
Leaving  thy  bay  as  placid  as  before. 
City  of  terror  !  where  the  rod  of  God 
Pursued  the  flying  prophet,  and  with  storm 
Brought  back  the  unwilling  messenger  of  ill. 
City  of  gladness  !  where  apostles'  hands 
Wrought  miracles  of  love,  and  dried  up  tears, 
And  with  a  word  unlocked  the  gate  of  death. 
1  Scenes  such  as  these  I  would  revisit  still, 
Rebuilding  wall  and  fort  and  colonnade, 
Repeopling  all  this  emptiness  and  ruin  ; 
And,  mingling  with  the  men  of  other  days, 
Would  share  their  thoughts  and  deeds.  But  chiefly  thee, 
Holiest  of  cities, — now  the  most  defiled, — 
Where  stood  the  temple  of  the  Only  Wise, 


208  MY  OLD  LETTERS.         [line  515. 

Where  the  one  altar  sent  its  smoke  to  heaven, 
Witness  and  symbol  of  the  Coming  One, 
Whose  death  without  the  gate  hath  won  the  life 
For  us  which  only  that  one  death  could  win. 
Thee  would  I  look  upon  as  once  thou  wast, 
When  all  thy  gates  were  song,  thy  walls  were  strength, 
And  all  thy  stones  were  peace  ;  where  melody, 
The  like  of  which  has  not  been  heard  since  then, 
Rose  up  from  voice  and  harp  and  trumpet  clear, 
Speaking  the  praises  of  the  mighty  King. 
Thee  would  I  traverse  in  that  hour  of  hours, 
When  He  who  took  my  cross  went  forth  in  shame 
To  bear  my  guilt,  and,  in  most  sweet  exchange, 
To  give  me  all  His  heavenly  innocence, — 
My  raiment  and  my  beauty  and  my  peace  ! 

'  Am  I  not  there  ?    Is  not  that  city  mine  ? 
And  am  I  not  a  unit  in  that  crowd  ? 
Is  not  my  voice  amid  that  shower  of  sounds 
That  fills  the  Roman  hall  ?     And  do  I  not 
Behold  the  Man  ?     And  do  I  not  go  forth 
To  gaze  upon  the  Altar  and  the  Lamb  ? 
Beyond  the  marble  wall  I  see  the  cross, 
And  know  its  meaning  ;  for  that  cross  is  mine ; 
Mine  is  the  crown  of  thorns  ;  and  thro'  my  hands 
And  feet  the  nails  are  driven  ;  it  is  my  side 
That  the  spear  pierces, — I  have  died  with  Him. 
All  that  is  mine  He  takes,  and  gives  me  His. 
I  get  another's  wealth,  another's  name  : 
All  that  that  wealth  can  give  I  get,  and  all 
That  that  name  covers  is  now  reckoned  mine ; — 
His  good  supplants  my  ill,  His  death  my  death  ; 


line  546.]  BOOK  VIII.  209 

He  takes  my  darkness,  gives  me  all  His  light. 
The  imperfect  and  the  perfect  thus  exchanged, 
The  bond  is  cancelled,  and  the  debtor  freed. 

'  Back  to  the  burning  East  (so  dreamers  speak), 
Back  to  the  burning  East,  whose  skies  are  love, 
And  stars  are  splendour,  and  the  sun  all  flame  ; 
Where  night  by  night,  without  a  veil  to  hide 
Her  beauty,  in  deep  fondness  bends  o'er  earth 
The  ever-filling,  ever-emptying  moon. 
Yet  not  for  splendour,  nor  for  sparkling  heavens  ; 
Nor  for  the  luxury  of  golden  noons  ; 
Nor  for  the  mellow  moonshine,  under  which 
The  cedar  sinks  to  sleep  ;  nor  for  the  breeze 
That  cools  the  olive  on  the  mountain-slope  ; 
Nor  for  all  these  together,  would  I  seek 
The  mighty  East.     I  know  that  it  is  fair ! 
Majestic  slope  of  royal  Lebanon, 
Up  which  the  sea-breeze  rushes,  when  the  storm 
Is  marshalling  its  strength  !     Gorges  of  gloom, 
Thro'  whose  split  crags  Leontes  flows  in  power, 
As  if  some  giant,  with  a  two-edged  sword, 
Had  lengthwise  cleft  the  mountain-ridge  in  twain, 
From  peak  to  lowest  base,  and  left  behind 
The  flashing  weapon  quivering  in  the  rock  ; 
On  whose  precipitous  ledges  root  themselves 
The  wild  fig  or  the  yellow  jessamine, 
And  thro'  whose  crevices  the  upper  snow, 
Dissolved  by  summer's  sun,  pours  itself  down 
In  lucid  rills,  or  gushes  wildly  out 
In  mirthful  fountains,  to  enrich  and  bless 
The  gardens  and  the  orchards  underneath. 


210  MY  OLD  LETTERS.         [line  577. 

1  Yet  not  for  all  this  beauty  would  I  seek 
The  fragrant  East,  but  for  more  glorious  things : 
There  rose  the  sun  that  shall  go  down  no  more  ; 
There  sprang  the  fountain  that  shall  water  earth  ; 
There  burst  the  glory  that  shall  never  pale  ; 
There  rose  the  life  with  which  death  strove  in  vain  ; 
There  was  the  golden  chain  prepared  and  forged 
Which  knitteth  earth  to  heaven  ;  there  also  stood 
The  more  than  golden  ladder  which  connects 
These  lower  chambers  with  the  upper  halls  ; 
There  was  the  manger-cradle  within  which 
Eternity  was  laid  ;  there  stood  the  cross 
Where  love  and  justice  met ;  there  was  the  tomb 
From  which  came  immortality  and  joy  ; 
There  was  the  fiery  battle  fought  and  won, 
Beneath  Melchizedec's  old  city  wall, 
Outside  the  gate,  where  Death,  his  two-edged  sword 
Unsheathing  as  a  conqueror,  smote  the  Life, 
And  in  that  smiting  lost  his  victory. 
To  thee,  dear  land!  first  home  of  heavenly  truth, 
And  ancient  fount  of  that  all-healing  sunshine 
That  yet  shall  fill  this  light-forsaken  earth, — 
To  thee,  dear  land,  old  well  of  life  divine, 
And  birthplace  of  eternal  liberty, 
The  heart  still  turns,  and  from  thy  incense-hills 
Inhales  the  odours  of  a  lower  heaven. 

'  Not  always  westward  has  the  current  flowed  ; 
Eastward  and  southward  was  the  progress  once, 
And  many  an  eastern,  many  a  southern  realm 
Has  drunk  the  living  water  from  the  fount 
Whence  our  great  fathers  drew  their  primal  stores 


line6o8.]  BOOK  VI II.  211 

Of  knowledge  and  of  art.     Since  then  the  tide 
Has  turned,  and  the  old  rivers  seem  to  find 
A  new  and  vaster  watershed,  whence  still 
The  ancient  centres  pour  their  melting  snows 
Upon  the  fields  of  other  continents. 

'  Westward  the  current  has  for  ages  flowed  : 
The  genial  East,  the  ancient  home  of  truth, 
Well-watered  once,  has  long  been  bare  and  dry. 
At  last  the  tide  has  struck  its  bounds,  and  turns 
Back  to  its  birthplace  on  the  eastern  plains, 
Where  the  old  rivers  ran,  the  old  cities  stood, 
The  old  altars  smoked  to  the  one  living  God, 
At  Uz  or  Bethel, — shrines  of  ancient  faith, — 
Hebron,  or  Shiloh,  or  Moriah's  hill  ; 
It  is  already  on  its  way,  to  make 
That  faded  land  once  more  the  Orient, 
Rising  as  rises  its  own  cloudless  sun, 
Rising  as  rises  its  own  crowned  palm. 
The  East  revives  ;  and  see,  with  it  come  up 
Ages  of  history,  once  all  but  lost ; 
Stone-carved,  and  buried  in  the  drifted  sand 
Of  Khorsabad  or  Philae  or  Dibhan. 
The  East  awakes, — rich  in  its  own  past  wealth, 
So  long  entombed  ;  rich,  too,  in  the  full  store 
Of  western  treasure  ; — East  and  West  together, 
Parent  and  offspring,  gathering  their  one  harvest 
To  fill  the  universal  earth  with  joy. 

1  The  Orient  is  not  dead,  it  only  sleeps  ; 
Its  sun  has  not  gone  down,  'tis  only  veiled. 
It  has  a  future  which  we  dream  not  of, 
A  future  for  itself  and  for  the  world  : 


2i2  MY  OLD  LETTERS.         [line  639. 

Its  dawn  of  resurrection  is  at  hand. 

The  mosque,  which  like  a  gravestone  covers  it, 

From  farthest  Cabul  to  the  rock  of  Tyre, 

Shall  be  rolled  off ;  and  the  great  Life  shall  come 

Like  a  new  morning  to  the  land  of  morn. 

* "  Uncover  ye  your  heads  as  ye  go  in 
To  worship  God  within  His  holy  house :" 
So  speaks  the  younger  West,  with  its  new  thoughts 
Of  holiness  in  wall  and  arch  and  roof. 
u  Uncover  ye  your  feet  as  ye  pass  in 
To  holy  places,  where  a  present  God 
Is  worshipped  in  His  glorious  majesty  :  " 
So  speaks  the  older  East,  with  its  old  thoughts 
Of  holy  ground  beneath  our  feet,  which  man 
Must  not  defile,  but  tread  with  footstep  clean. 

1  Each  has  its  thoughts  of  holy  majesty  ; 
Each  has  its  attitude  of  reverence  ; 
To  each  the  way  is  open  which  leads  up 
To  the  eternal  throne,  where  priestly  lips 
Pronounce  the  royal  pardon  in  the  name 
Of  everlasting  justice  to  each  one, 
Of  East  or  West,  who  names  the  blessed  Name. 
Within  the  souls  of  both,  the  mighty  truth, 
Working,  reveals  itself  in  different  ways. 
"  God  is  a  spirit ;  they  who  worship  Him 
Must  worship  Him  in  spirit  and  in  truth." 
And  in  that  day  when  the  unsandalled  East 
Shall  meet  the  uncovered  West,  and  both  in  crowds 
Ascend  the  holy  hill,  all  earth  shall  join 
In  one  unjarring  song,  the  song  of  men 
Who,  with  their  many  lips  and  dialects, 


line  670.]  BOOK  VIII.  213 

Shall  find  themselves  all  one  in  Him  whose  cross 
Shall  be  the  uplifted  banner  of  the  world, 
Centre  and  basis  of  all  holy  worship  ; 
Whose  throne  in  Salem  shall  become  the  seat 
Of  righteous  law  and  happy  government 
To  a  delivered  world,  in  which  both  East 
And  West  shall  form  one  people  and  one  realm. 
1  The  same  fair  moon  that  lights  up  Lebanon 
Spreads  its  sweet  silver  o'er  our  Grampian  heath  ; 
The  dews  and  suns  of  every  age  are  one  ; 
And  the  same  rainbow,  bright  with  ancient  love, 
Weaves  its  one  wreath  for  every  cloud  and  clime ; 
The  sun  of  May,  rich,  bright,  Italian  May, 
Melting  the  snow  upon  the  Splugen  steeps 
To  flood  the  willow-shaded  Valteline, 
Calls  up  a  paradise  of  heaven-sown  flowers, — 
Miles  of  blue  gentian,  Alpine  amethysts, 
Like  drops  of  molten  azure  from  the  sky  ; 
The  primrose  and  the  snowflake  by  the  shore 
Of  Leman,  when  the  spring-noon  gathers  strength, 
And  frosts  are  melting  from  its  tangled  slopes ; 
Night-scenting  daphne,  making  darkness  sweet ; 
And  violets  bursting  thro'  the  mouldering  leaves 
Of  the  last  autumn's  oaks  beside  the  moss  : 
These  are  the  broidered  girdle  of  the  earth, 
That  binds  all  realms  together  into  one, 
As  if  pervaded  by  a  common  soul. 
The  soft  March  rain  of  Palestine,  that  brings 
Fertility  and  warmth  in  every  drop, 
Comes  down  upon  her  broken  terraces 
And  ruin-cumbered  soil ;  then  everywhere 


214  MY  OLD  LETTERS.         [line  701. 

Bursts  up  the  wind-flower  and  the  cyclamen, 
Where  the  grey  sand  or  rubbish  lay  before. 

1  Thus  round  the  globe  moveth  the  breath  of  God  ; 
Thus  all  the  earth  receives  His  daily  love, 
In  sun  or  shower  or  odour-bearing  breeze  ; 
And  His  one  family  sit  down  beneath 
His  silent  wing  to  share  His  gracious  smile. 

*  Thus  round  the  globe  moveth  the  light  of  God, 
Rising  and  setting  everywhere, — one  sun. 
I  see  it  now,  as  o'er  yon  mountain  curve 
It  bends  its  downward  sweep,  the  same  fair  sun 
That  rose  this  morning  over  other  hills  ; 
It  droops  and  disappears,  yet  still  I  see 
Its  rays  flung  back  from  yonder  rocky  spire, 
That  like  a  watch-tower  lifts  itself  on  high. 
But  now  it  fades  ;  the  twilight  comes  apace  ; 
The  glow  has  vanished  from  the  mountain-peak, 
And  the  celestial  abejid-kuss  is  gone. 

'  Thus  in  earth's  mould  is  sown  the  seed  of  God, 
Impregnated  with  universal  life. 
Faithful  has  been  this  mother-earth  to  each 
Small  seed  or  root  entrusted  to  her  bosom  ; 
And  faithfully  in  her  appointed  time 
Does  she  refund  the  treasure  lodged  within  her. 
When  summer  comes  apace,  the  patient  earth, 
Long  silent,  as  if  wholly  dumb,  takes  up 
The  frozen  or  forgotten  lute,  and  sings 
Its  ancient  plain-song  to  the  answering  woods, 
And  ocean  never  mute,  or  winged  stream. 
So  faithfully,  to  liken  great  to  small, 
Shall  this  true  earth  refund  the  immortal  seed 


line  732-]  BOOK  VIII.  215 

Sown  in  her  soil,  with  sevenfold  usury, 

In  the  great  resurrection-harvest,  when, 

At  rising  of  the  never-setting  sun, 

From  the  dead  dust  shall  spring  the  glorious  life  ; 

Beauty  exchanged  for  vileness  and  for  shame, 

Mortal  become  immortal,  and  the  furrows 

Of  the  long  mute  and  barren  grave  at  length 

Yielding  on  earth  the  ripened  fruit  of  heaven  ; 

The  lower  discords  here  dissolved  at  length 

In  higher  harmonies,  and  the  great  song 

Of  the  vast  universe  then  taking  in 

Its  deepest  notes,  unheard,  unknown  before  ; 

The  one  eternal  purpose  folding  out 

To  its  wide  uttermost  of  joy  and  love, 

And  all  the  compass  of  its  music  then 

Played  out  in  full,  unhindered  and  unstayed. 

1  The  lack  of  sunlight  (so  thought  men  of  old) 
Turns  gold  to  iron  ;  and  the  sun,  they  said, 
Pouring  its  yellow  radiance  into  iron, 
Turns  it  to  gold.     So  think  I  when  I  see 
The  iron  of  this  iron  age  :  it  lacks 
The  sun.     And  then  I  gladly  think,  that  when 
The  fair  new  sun  of  the  long-promised  day 
Shall  sweetly  rise,  in  its  omnipotence 
Of  transformation,  on  this  waiting  world, 
All  shall  be  gold  again,  as  at  the  first ; 
And  the  bright  age,  renowned  in  ancient  song, 
Begin  the  joy  of  its  unending  noon. 

*  The  bearer  of  good  tidings  knocketh  boldly, 
Demanding  instant  entrance  ;  of  ill  news 
The  messenger  knocks  faintly,  and  with  hand 


216  MY  OLD  LETTERS.         [line  763. 

That  falters  while  it  knocks.     I  seem  to  hear 
In  these  strange  days,  and  in  the  varied  voices 
Of  men  and  things  around  me  everywhere, 
The  loud,  the  loving,  the  impatient  knock 
Of  Him  who  brings  good  tidings  to  the  world 
Of  truth  and  order  and  deliverance 
At  hand  ;  when  evil  shall  have  done  its  worst, 
And  to  some  second  cross  have  nailed  all 
That  is  or  good  or  true  upon  the  earth. 

*  I  would  not  be  of  those  who  speak  of  what 
They  know  not,  nor  can  see  with  mortal  eye, 
Eager  to  plunge  into  the  tangled  thicket 
Of  the  great  life  beyond  their  little  own, 
Impatient  of  the  present  and  the  past. 
And  yet  the  ripple  speaks  the  rising  wind  ; 
The  ruby  dimple  on  the  cheek  of  dawn 
Says  night  is  done  ;  the  crash  of  breaking  ice 
In  the  far  rivers  of  the  frozen  north 
Says  spring  is  come,  and  summer  is  at  hand. 
So  look  I  round,  and  gather  up  the  meaning 
Of  these  surrounding  discords.      Evil  comes, 
And  yet  that  evil  is  the  womb  of  good. 
The  upas-tree  is  blossoming,  and  yet 
From  its  far-scattered  seed  there  shall  arise 
No  second  upas.     In  its  place  comes  up 
The  tree  of  life,  beneath  which  men  shall  sit, 
And  from  whose  boughs  shall  drop  the  eternal  fruit. 

'  Creation  is  in  travail,  and  the  birth 
Will  be  divine  ;  the  mother  and  the  child 
Like,  yet  unlike  :  the  child  supremely  fair, 
Scaled  with  the  seal  of  everlasting  youth, — 


line  794-]  BOOK  VIII.  217 

A  world  without  a  wrinkle  or  a  frown, 
The  dew  of  morning  ever  on  its  brow. 

1  The  dynasties  of  earth  are  looking  out 
For  the  last  earthquake,  under  whose  fell  stroke 
Each  shall  go  down  in  darkness,  making  room 
For  the  eternal  monarchy  that  now 
Is  on  its  way  to  take  the  place  of  all, 
And  do  for  earth  what  they  have  failed  to  do. 
Europe  succumbs,  like  to  the  fabled  maid, 
Crushed  with  the  armour  heaped  upon  her  head. 
Its  crowns  dissolve  ;  the  iron  and  the  clay, 
Long  knit,  now  break  asunder,  beaten  down 
Like  dust  beneath  the  feet,  and  swept  away 
Like  the  light  chaff  of  summer  threshing-floor. 
The  City  of  the  Seven  Hills  sinks  in  gloom 
Beneath  the  angel's  millstone,  to  be  found 
No  more  ;  her  place  and  name  for  ever  gone. 
The  oriflamme  of  Gaul  is  torn  and  dim  ; 
The  double  eagle  droops  its  broken  wing  ; 
The  chaos  of  the  kingdoms  now  has  come  ; 
Sceptres  and  spears  lie  broken  on  the  plains  ; 
Ashes  to  ashes,  dust  to  dust,  is  now 
The  doom  of  earthly  splendour,  east  and  west. 
Mortal  magnificence,  like  mountain  snow, 
Has  melted  down  before  the  rising  sun. 

'  Not  till  the  race  is  ended  do  we  know 
Who  is  the  winner  :  time  will  tell  us  all. 
This  only  do  we  know,  for  Truth  hath  said  it, 
The  last  shall  be  the  first,  the  first  the  last. 
The  swiftest  are  the  silentest.     The  slow 
Grate  heavily  upon  their  ponderous  wheels  ; 


2i8  MY  OLD  LETTERS.         [line  825. 

The  eagle  noiseless  cuts  the  unconscious  air ; 

And  the  red  bolt  is  heard  but  when  it  smites ; 

The  arrow- showers  of  light  are  shot  in  silence 

By  the  bright  archer  as  he  moves  on  high. 

'Tis  not  the  noise  that  marks  or  tests  the  progress  ; 

Mute  is  the  speed  of  men  in  earnest,  brief 

The  words  they  speak  when  shooting  to  the  goal. 

The  language  of  the  lips  is  loud  and  hollow  ; 

The  language  of  the  heart  is  deep  and  low. 

1  Let  us  move  on.     The  world  is  growing  old, 
And  suns  set  quickly  now  ;  in  ambush  lies 
The  foe  on  every  side  ;  we  may  not  tarry. 
Day  scatters  us,  but  night  doth  gather  all ; 
The  darkness  summons  home,  and  we  obey, 
Swiftly  and  silently  we  hasten  forward  ; 
We  must  not  loiter  till  to-morrow  here  ; 
Ere  stars  are  set,  and  the  next  sun  is  up, 
We  must  be  home  within  our  city-gate. 

*  But, — softly, — for  the  way  is  rough  and  steep  ; 
The  unshod  foot  must  still  avoid  the  thorn, 

And  shun  the  stone  o'er  which  it  once  has  stumbled  : 

What  one  false  step  may  do  we  cannot  tell. 

Yet,  strongly,  strongly,  tho'  you  softly  press 

Along  the  way  ;  it  will  need  all  your  strength. 

They  know  the  stream  who  have  been  swimming  hard 

Against  its  violence :  slacken  not  your  strokes, 

Lest  in  a  moment  the  great  torrent-rush 

Of  human  custom  sweep  thee  powerless  down, 

And  cast  thee  cold  upon  an  unknown  shore. 

*  Let  us  move  up.     The  height  will  soon  be  reached 
From  which  the  earth  becomes  invisible, 


line  S56.]  BOOK  VIII.  219 

And  only  heaven  is  seen.     Both  hope  and  fear, 

From  which  temptations  spring,  will  soon  be  left 

Beneath  our  feet,  and  we  shall  see  the  banner 

That  waves  upon  the  everlasting  walls, 

And  beckons  us  to  rise.     Below  is  night, 

Above  is  day ;  behind  us  is  the  toil, 

Before  the  rest  in  which  the  weariness 

Of  time's  slow  hours  is  all  submerged  at  last. 

No  longer  groaneth  the  astonished  air 

With  human  grief ;  the  height  on  which  we  stand 

Makes  every  sound  of  earth  inaudible. 

'When  at  that  height  of  heights  where  all  is  pure 
And  calm  as  the  eternal  atmosphere, 
Into  which  storm  has  never  found  its  way, 
Shall  struggling  creaturehood  at  length  arrive  ? 
We  grope  and  grovel  here,  while  overhead 
Sit  the  eternal  beauty  and  high  love 
Beckoning  us  upwards,  and  yet  upwards  still. 

1  To  rise  on  wing,  and  find  our  tranquil  way 
To  yon  sweet  star  that  rests  in  joy  above  us, 
Like  a  snow-covered  island  far  at  sea, 
How  bright  the  thought,  as  day  by  day  we  climb 
The  slippery  steep,  or  leap  life's  awful  chasms  ! 
But  when, — but  when  shall  that  glad  flight  be  made  ? 
Not  to  yon  sparkling  island  of  the  blest, 
But  to  a  region  more  divinely  fair, 
Where  He  whom  now  we  see  not  reigns  in  light. 

1  That  light  has  come  into  the  world  ;  but  men 
Have  loved  the  darkness,  and  that  heavenly  ray 
Has  found  no  home  nor  resting-place.     It  has 
Passed  on  from  land  to  land,  but  stayed  not  long 


220  MY  OLD  LETTERS.         [line  8S7. 

In  any ;  and  its  rushing  course  has  been 
A  torch-race  of  the  ages,  not  yet  done. 
It  has  sought  children  everywhere ;  and  yet 
Men  have  refused  the  sonship  !     As  if  all 
That  such  a  fatherhood  could  offer  were 
But  mockery  of  a  nature  such  as  theirs. 

1  I've  known  the  night;  when  shall  I  taste  the  day? 
I've  sat  in  silence,  with  the  sobbing  gust 
My  one  companion,  and  the  shaken  leaf 
My  gentle  comforter,  and  the  tired  ripple 
With  soft  sound  falling  on  the  moist  grey  sand, 
The  type  of  weary  life ;  with  troubled  eye, 
Yet  heart  of  hope,  watching  in  patient  joy 
The  long  low  flicker  of  the  evening  star 
Across  the  heaving  wave.     I've  seen  its  setting, 
And  the  sad  night  come  down  ;  then  have  I  watched 
For  morn  till  morning  came ;  and  when  it  came, 
My  inmost  soul  rejoiced,  my  eye  grew  bright. 

1  O  light  of  the  eternal  ages,  come, 
And  with  the  sunshine  of  unsetting  day 
End  the  long  midnight  of  humanity, 
Which  thou  alone  canst  end.     Fill  with  thyself 
These  heavy  skies  ;  pour  down  thy  love  upon 
The  hills  and  valleys  of  this  ancient  earth, 
Which  waits  for  thee,  that  thou  and  it  together 
May  yet  rejoice,  thou  resting  o'er  it  fondly, 
And  it  as  fondly  looking  up  to  thee, 
The  blight,  the  tempest,  and  the  gloom  all  gone. 

'  Death  is  not  life's  necessity  ;  but  life 
Is  the  one  great  necessity  of  death, 
And  out  of  death  shall  rise,  in  buoyant  power 


LINEQlS.]  BOOK    VIII.  221 

And  beauty  incorruptible,  no  more 

To  feel  the  law  of  weakness  and  decay. 

Yet  death  is  awful  in  its  strength,  and  yet 

More  awful  in  its  silence.     Everywhere 

We  find  its  serpent-trail ;  without  the  sound 

Of  axes  or  of  hammers,  it  lays  low 

All  that  of  life  this  vital  earth  contains, 

The  young,  the  gay,  the  strong,  the  beautiful. 

It  does  not  need  the  battle-field  to  slay, 

Nor  the  dread  blow  of  the  hot  lightning-bolt 

To  separate  the  temple  from  its  guest, 

The  body  from  its  co-mate  here,  the  soul. 

Death  steals  into  the  perfumed  room  of  wealth, 

As  into  the  dark  cell  of  poverty. 

Como's  sweet,  sunny  lake  can  quench  young  life 

As  surely  as  the  dark  sea  of  the  North, 

That  lays  its  daily  siege  to  the  lone  rock 

Of  the  far  Hebrides,  and  breaks  in  foam 

Upon  the  cliffs  of  Jura  or  of  Lorn. 

■  There  comes  a  time  when  night  shall  not  be  needed, 
But  only  day, — one  long,  long,  loving  day. 
O  night  and  coolness  after  day's  fierce  glow ! 
O  night  and  darkness  after  noon's  red  blaze ! 
How  I  have  loved  you,  counting  your  soft  shade 
Sweeter  than  day  !     And  shall  I  part  from  you 
Without  a  sigh,  remembering  how  oft 
Ye  comforted  and  cooled  our  burning  hearts  ? 
O  soother  of  so  many  griefs,  farewell ! ' 


BOOK   IX. 


The  stars  are  out  upon  their  pilgrimage, 
And  the  sweet  moon  looks  round  in  sympathy, 
Listening,  as,  one  by  one,  they  sing  in  joy 
Their  nightly  song  in  the  blue-vaulted  hall 
Above  us,  moving  on  their  pilgrim  way 
To  some  far  shrine  that  eye  hath  never  seen. 

So  let  me  follow  them  in  love  and  song 
To  Him  who  gave  them  all  their  happy  brightness  ! 
So  let  me  move  in  constancy  like  theirs 
Thro'  all  my  nightly  course,  till  day  shall  dawn, 
And  every  orb  has  hid  its  stedfast  beams 
In  rising  light  superior  to  its  own. 

A  little  bluer,  and  it  will  be  dawn  ; 
A  little  fairer,  and  it  will  be  morn ; 
A  little  brighter,  and  it  will  be  noon  ; 
And  then  the  tide  of  day  begins  to  ebb  ! — 
Is  this  the  story  of  our  common  life  ? 

A  little  paler,  and  it  will  be  eve ; 

A  little  shadier,  and  the  twilight  falls  ; 

A  little  darker,  and  the  night  has  come  ; 

And  then  the  blank,  broad  midnight ! — Is  this  life  ? 

And  is  the  growth  of  this  immortal  being 

222 


line  23.]  BOOK  IX.  223 

But  the  brief  story  of  a  summer's  day, 
Made  up  of  dew  and  sunlight,  and  beguiled 
With  hourly  changes,  like  the  varying  notes, 
Swelling  or  dying,  of  some  wandering  tune, 
Which  the  great  wind  is  playing  as  it  sweeps 
Thro'  the  brown  network  of  the  moorland  pines  : 

Life  is  but  fantasy  to  some  ;  a  mist 
Steeped  in  soft  sunshine,  vanishing  at  eve. 
To  them  the  ideal  is  the  true,  the  real 
The  false.     They  fashion  for  themselves  a  dream, 
And  call  it  life ;  while  that  which  God  has  made 
For  them,  they  call  the  commonplace  and  stale, 
Beneath  the  dignity  of  royal  minds. 

Fancy  repeats  itself,  and  false  life  glides 
Into  some  beaten  track  ;  true  life  alone 
Is  fresh,  and  has  a  pathway  for  herself ; 
Original  by  being  simply  true, 
And  acting  itself  out  in  common  things. 
Debtor  to  none  on  earth,  she  lets  the  voice 
Pent  up  within  her,  in  its  native  tones, 
Speak  out  her  own  true  thoughts,  that  they  may  do 
The  life-long  work  for  which  each  one  was  given. 
She  lets  the  eye  see  what  the  Moulder  meant 
That  it  should  look  upon  ;  she  lets  the  ear 
Hear  all  the  music  it  was  meant  to  hear ; 
She  lets  the  seed  within  her  spring  and  bear, 
After  its  kind,  its  own  peculiar  fruit, 
Unforced  alike  in  season  or  in  clime, 
As  the  free  sunshine  and  the  generous  air 
May  draw  out  the  ripe  riches  of  its  root, 
And  make  it  all  itself,  and  not  another. 


224.  MY  OLD  LETTERS.  [line  54. 

Let  man  be  man,  and  woman,  woman  still. 

Let  ocean  still  be  ocean,  and  the  stream 

Be  still  the  stream,  the  breeze  be  still  the  breeze. 

Let  noon  be  noon,  and  night  the  sable  fringe 

Spangled  with  silver  on  the  robe  of  day  ; 

And  these  low  clouds,  that  hang  above  the  east 

Like  scattered  plumage  of  the  purple  morn, 

Still  be  the  clouds  for  suns  to  gaze  upon 

And  stars  to  hide  in.     Each  thing  God  has  made, 

Let  it  be  just  itself.     Let  not  one  life 

Steal  from  its  fellow,  nor  the  holy  lines, 

Dividing  form  and  colour  and  sweet  sounds 

One  from  the  other,  be  erased  or  dimmed. 

Tis  not  one  general  soul  that  fills  the  race, 

Nor  one  monotonous  voice  that  speaks  in  all ; 

Each  being  has  its  landmarks  and  its  laws, 

For  beauty  and  for  use  ;  then  let  not  law 

Be  mixed  with  law  until  all  law  be  lost, 

And  sea  with  sky  be  mingled,  hill  and  plain 

Tumbled  together,  and  the  rainbow  blanched 

Into  one  pale  and  cold  monotony. 

He  who  made  law,  and  all  that  law  brings  forth, 

Draws  His  own  lines  of  beauty,  form,  and  order, 

And  gives  each  atom  of  the  universe 

Its  own  position,  and  assigns  its  work. 

Each  kind  and  species,  both  in  soul  and  body, 
Takes  after  a  divine  selection,  which 
Man  has  no  power  to  thwart ;  God,  and  not  man, 
Bade  this  bright  globe  revolve,  and  all  things  on  it 
Move  onward  in  the  path  His  wisdom  chose, — 
His  will,  not  theirs,  the  inexorable  law. 


line  85.]  BOOK  IX.  225 

The  vales  are  greener  than  the  hills  ;  the  hills 
Are  greener  than  the  rocks  ;  the  rocks,  again, 
Are  greener  than  the  sea-bleached  sands.     Yet  who 
Would  fuse  them  all  in  one,  or  choose  the  greenest, 
Casting  out  all  the  rest  ?     Or  who  would  make 
Earth  one  wide  lawrn,  and  turn  the  waving  scene 
Of  rough  and  smooth,  fruitful  and  barren  land, 
Into  one  round  of  tame,  uncheckered  verdure  ? 
Each  song-bird  has  its  note ;  the  joyous  lark, 
Poised  on  the  breeze  of  dawn  ;  the  mellow  thrush, 
Haunting  the  grove  of  noon  ;  the  nightingale, 
Sweetening  the  darkness  with  its  loving  lay, — 
Each  sings  its  own  wild  song.     Each  gracious  flower, 
Fresh  from  the  bosom  of  its  mother  earth, 
Has  its  own  fragrance  and  peculiar  hue ; 
Spring-lilies,  pale  as  dawn  ;  the  feather-grass, 
All  plumage  ;  willows  shading  the  sweet  brook 
They  love  so  well ;  the  ivy,  with  its  tresses, 
Hiding  the  ruin  which  it  makes  so  fair  ; 
All  beautiful,  yet  no  one  borrowing 
Aught  from  his  fellow  ;  each  itself  a  voice 
Speaking  a  language  of  its  own,  and  choosing 
Its  season  and  its  soil,  its  scent  and  hue. 
So  has  each  human  spirit  its  own  life, 
Lesser  or  greater,  which  it  must  expand, 
As  does  the  bud  the  blossom,  as  the  root 
The  tree  of  its  own  kindred.     Woe  to  him 
Who  fondly  covets  what  is  not  his  own, 
And  lives  a  borrowed  life  ;  wTho  tries  to  do 
Another's  work  and  speak  another's  words, 
As  greater,  worthier,  loftier  than  his  own  ! 


226  MY  OLD  LETTERS.         [line  116. 

Nobly  does  every  part  of  earth  and  sea 

Do  its  own  work,  and  keep  its  stedfast  course. 

Learn  here  thy  lesson,  vain,  ambitious  man  ! 

Do  thine  own  work,  and  do  it  well  while  here  ; 

Bring  out  into  full  stretch  thy  proper  strength, 

Misused,  it  may  be,  or  unused  before. 

Sweep  the  whole  compass  of  your  God-given  lyre, 

And  let  the  unstolen  music  of  your  being 

Come  daily  out  into  a  jarring  world. 

So  shall  you  tell  upon  that  world,  as  you 

Were  meant  to  do,  and  leave  some  mark  behind. 

I  stood  upon  the  lofty  Munster-platz 
Of  Roman  Basel,  seat  of  ancient  kings. 
Hard  by  me  crouched  the  venerable  crypt 
Where  Haus-schein  and  his  noble  co-mates  rest. 
Behind  me  rose  the  double  spire,  round  which 
Six  centuries  have  thrown  their  solemn  shade  ; 
And  where,  beneath  the  high  cathedral  arch, 
In  pale  red  marble  old  Erasmus  sleeps. 
Far  down  beneath  me  the  great  Rhine  rushed  on, 
Winding  and  foaming ;  on  its  sleepless  bosom 
Barges  and  bridges,  and  the  busy  craft 
That  bears  along  the  priceless  merchandise 
Of  cities  and  of  nations.     There  it  flows, 
As  it  has  flowed  since  Rome  and  Caesar  stemmed  it, 
Doing  its  own  old  work  unchangeably, 
The  highway  of  the  nations,  and  the  wall 
That  fences  states  and  kingdoms,  looking  round 
Upon  the  thousand  cities  which  it  feeds, 
The  ruined  castles  which  it  once  defended, 
And  the  ten  thousand  vineyards  which  it  waters. 


line  14;.]  BOOK  IX.  227 

There,  downward  still  it  sweeps  with  changeless  course 
Upon  its  ancient  mission,  as  it  holds 
Its  fearless  way  to  the  far  Northern  Sea. 
Each  river  has  its  pilgrimage,  on  which 
It  hastes,  like  one  in  earnest,  staff  in  hand  ; 
Xor  stops  nor  swerves  till  it  has  reached  the  goal, 
And  knocketh  at  the  ocean-gates  for  entrance 
Into  the  rest  which  it  hath  sought  so  long  ; 
Some  through  strange  deserts,  silent  as  the  night ; 
Some  trickling  down  the  cliff  like  silver  spray  ; 
Some  stealing  cold  and  turbid  from  beneath 
The  sliding  glacier  ;  some  through  fields  of  green  ; 
Some  through  long  avenues  of  palms  ;  and  some 
Through  streets  of  mighty  cities,  or  by  towers 
Each  stone  of  which  old  fable  has  adorned ; 
Some  by  the  slopes  of  the  sun-fronting  vineyard  ; 
And  some  beneath  the  shadow  of  the  pine. 
Thus,  woven  into  song  and  story,  from 
Its  mountain-cradle  to  its  ocean-tomb, 
Each  pilgrim-river,  chanting  its  own  lay, 
Or  low  or  loud,  pours  onward  to  the  deep. 
O  music  of  the  living  streams  of  earth, 
How  sweet !     Each  river  with  its  well-known  tune, 
Unlike  and  yet  so  like  its  fellows,  sings, 
Xot  flowers  alone,  but  human  hearts  to  rest. 
Sing  on,  ye  streams  and  streamlets,  still  sing  on, 
And  cease  not,  day  nor  night ;  your  well-strung  chords 
Have  known  no  breaking,  nor  shall  know  it ;  still 
Throughout  the  ages  speaking  love  to  man, 
Brightening  and  cheering,  as  ye  pass  along, 
Ten  thousand  homes  with  your  bright  words  of  peace  ! 


228  MY  OLD  LETTERS.         [line  178. 

So  mused  I  silently,  as  o'er  and  o'er 
I  turned  the  wrinkled  pages  lying  round  ; 
Now  taking  up,  now  laying  down  again 
The  well-worn  relics  of  long-buried  years 
Which  rise  to  life  again  in  every  page. 
Here  folds  out  one,  with  small  tears  spotted  o'er, 
Youth's  first  and  bitterest, — tears  dried  up  in  haste, 
As  if  the  weeper  were  ashamed  of  each, 
Wishing  the  stains  undone.     She  writes  as  one 
Dreaming  o'er  girlhood's  memories  ;  o'er  love, 
That  like  a  gilded  barque  went  down  beneath  her, 
Herself  at  once  the  wrecker  and  the  wrecked. 
'  I  was  too  young  to  love,  and  yet  I  loved  ; 
He  wooed  and  won  me,  though  he  knew  it  not. 
Happy,  yet  half-ashamed,  and  insolent, 
In  the  first  consciousness  of  budding  beauty, 
I  would  not  have  it  known  that  I  was  won. 
He  thinks  of  you,  a  maiden  said  to  me  ; 
He  thinks  of  me,  I  said  to  my  own  heart ; 
And  that  one  glowing  dream  of  being  loved 
Set  my  whole  life  on  fire,  and  wakened  up 
All  womanhood  within  me,  ripening 
With  passion's  sudden  heat  my  unripe  girlhood, 
Turning  me  into  woman  ere  I  knew. 

1  I  saw  none  like  him  among  all  the  many 
That  came  and  went,  and  he  saw  none  like  me. 
I  knew  it,  and  I  trembled  with  delight, 
Yet  hid  alike  my  passion  and  my  joy. 
But  eyes  will  speak  when  lips  are  false  or  dumb; 
For  youth  interprets  silence,  drinks  in  hope, 
And  without  words  one  heart  can  meet  another. 


line  209.]  BOOK  IX.  229 

So  eye  looked  into  eye,  and  still  the  spell 
Remained  unbroken  ;  words  refused  to  flow. 

'We  met  where  streams  are  meeting, where  the  Arve, 
Strong  from  its  mountain  ice-founts,  like  a  spear 
Pierces  the  yielding  Rhone  ;  again  we  heard 
The  soothing  chimes  of  moonlit  waterfalls  ; 
Walked  the  brown  moor  together ;  climbed  the  cliff, 
Which  pine  and  hazel  shaded  ;  took  our  way 
Thro'  the  old  garden,  where  the  flowers  seemed  strewn 
Like  dust  of  broken  rainbows  'neath  our  feet ; 
Or  up  the  mountain  gorge,  draped  all  in  gold 
Of  furze  and  broom  ;  strolled  at  low  sunrise  o'er 
The  long,  grey  sandslope,  which  the  sportive  wave 
Had  just  receded  from  ;  or  at  pale  eve 
Drifted  along  the  lake  with  idle  oar, 
Of  motion  all  unconscious  ;  rather  that 
Not  we,  but  the  great  hills  were  moving  on, 
Thro'  the  slow  shadows  of  the  languid  twilight, 
And  the  still  lake  looked  as  if  sailing  past  us, — 
A  tremulous  stretch  of  pearl  and  amethyst, 
Wrought  into  rich  mosaic,  changing  still 
Its  restless  colours  as  the  sun  sank  low. 
Thus  summer  hours  went  by;  the  link  was  knit 
Between  us  ere  we  knew,  and  all  the  sunshine 
Of  these  fair  months  seemed  woven  unchangeably 
Into  our  inmost  being.     Yet  we  parted  ; 
I  might  have  been  his  bride,  and  yet  we  parted  : 
I  need  not  tell  you  how  it  was,  or  why ; — 
He  to  forget  my  fickleness  and  scorn, 
Never  to  know  the  tears  I  shed  for  him ; 
And  I  to  cherish  in  my  heart  of  hearts, 


;o  MY  OLD  LETTERS.         [line  240. 

Till  life's  last  ripple  rolls  upon  the  sand, 
The  recollections  of  the  manly  love 
Which,  in  my  girlish  folly  and  caprice, 
I  threw  away  ;  to  me  for  ever  lost. 

0  first  and  fondest,  let  me  dream  again 
Of  love  and  thee,  as  in  that  summer  prime 
Of  strange  new  feeling,  ere  I  broke  the  spell. 
Oh,  had  he  but  believed  my  eye,  and  not 

My  lip,  all  had  been  well  ;  we  had  not  parted  ; 
He  would  have  known  me  truer  than  I  seemed  ; 
But  he  was  frank,  and  I  was  proud  and  fair. 

*  Then  life  with  me  began  :  self  broke  in  pieces  ; 
Youth's  sparkling  dreamery  dissolved  in  vapour, 
Like  ice-flowers  on  the  window-pane  at  noon ; 
And  out  of  this  dissolved  self  arose 
A  truer  being  ;  out  of  these  gay  dreams 
Sprang  thoughts  that  went  across  both  sea  and  earth, 
Wide  as  the  world,  and  widening  still  apace, 
As  sorrow  upon  sorrow  struck  me  down. 
For  has  it  not  been  found  that  honest  smart 
Expels  the  narrow  and  brings  in  the  wide  ? 
It  is  the  false  that  shrivels  up  the  soul, 
And  feeds  the  self  from  which  its  brooding  sprang. 

'Another  flower  has  faded  from  my  path, 

1  said  in  murmur,  as  the  new  stroke  fell. — 
Another  folly  fled,  say  rather  thou, 

A  deep  voice  answered  from  my  deeper  soul. 
Another  blank  in  this  bewildered  heart, 
Another  vacancy  in  this  full  earth, 
Which  lately  was  to  me  a  lower  heaven, 
I  said  in  dark  and  sullen  bitterness. 


line  2;i.]  BOOK  IX.  231 

Another  idol  fallen,  the  voice  replied, 
Another  altar  to  the  Unknown  God 
Displaced,  and  its  inscription  blotted  out : 
Room  made  at  length  in  that  o'ercrowded  heart 
And  this  o'erpeopled  earth  for  Him  whose  light 
Is  dearer  than  the  sun's,  for  Him  whose  love 
Is  richer  than  the  love  of  lover  here. 
Another  stone  in  life's  once  noble  arch 
Has  fallen,  and  the  whole  fabric  is  unbraced, 
I  cried  despondingly.     The  voice  replied, 
Another  stone  is  laid  here,  to  complete 
The  great  foundation  of  the  life  to  come. 
My  May  of  life  is  all  December  now  ; 
What  should  have  been  my  summer,  all  in  glow, 
Is  winter  with  its  frost.     So  thought  I  then  ; 
But  the  true  oracle  spoke,  All  is  well ; 
Your  summer  is  not  lost,  'tis  but  deferred ; 
Your  flowers  are  coming,  sweeter  for  delay. 
Another  storm  has  struck  my  panting  barque, 
Rending  the  last  poor  sail  that  I  had  spread 
To  bear  me  onward  to  the  haven  ;  so  spoke 
My  unbelief.     The  answer  came  again  ; 
Another  breeze  to  bear  thee  swiftly  home  : 
All  storms  blow  over  here  ;  some  simply  sink 
To  rest,  while  others  die  in  joyous  sunshine. 
Love  on,  work  on ;  thy  day  of  love  and  work 
Amid  thy  fellows  here  will  soon  be  done. 
At  death  our  doing  of  the  work  is  o'er, 
But  the  work  done  remains,  endures  for  ever. 
We  die,  but  that  which  we  have  done  still  lives, 
Bearing  its  proper  fruit  when  we  are  gone ; 


232  MY  OLD  LETTERS.         [line  302. 

Our  doings  are  the  blossoms  out  of  which 
The  fruit  for  coming  ages  is  to  grow.' 

I  fold  another  out ;  it  speaks  ambition, 
And  utters  thoughts  of  restless  enterprise. 
1  Only  the  blind  man  asks  what  beauty  is, 
And  why  it  is  so  fondly  doated  on. 
Only  the  man  who  has  no  eye  for  aught 
Like  a  divine  ideal  in  creation 
Would  set  up  for  the  architect  of  earth,    ' 
And  turn  away  from  such  a  scene  as  this 
Which  spreads  before  me  here.     The  beautiful 
Is  not  extinct,  nor  shall  be  while  He  lives 
Who  is  the  source  and  fountainhead  of  beauty. 
It  liveth  on  and  on  for  evermore, 
Flowing  and  ebbing,  fading,  freshening  still, 
In  daily  change,  like  hues  upon  the  cloud 
That  fronts  the  setting  or  the  rising  sun. 
The  rustle  of  yon  forest  is  a  song, 
The  quiver  of  yon  leaf  is  gracefulness. 
The  bulk  of  yon  grim  mountain-cliff  is  strength, 
The  twinkle  of  yon  river  is  a  smile  ; 
And  beauty  wanders  o'er  the  gleaming  wave, 
Or,  with  the  sinking  sun,  climbs  peak  by  peak 
That  purple  hill,  till  from  its  topmost  rock 
It  takes  its  flight  into  the  ambient  gloom. 

*  What  I  have  seen  but  makes  me  long  tne  more 
To  look  and  look  again  on  this  fair  world. 
I  love  to  think  of  earth's  unvisited 
And  unknown  scenes  of  beauty  or  of  terror  ; 
The  scorching  splendour  of  the  torrid  south, 


line  332.]  BOOK  IX.  233 

Or  ice-lights  of  Spitzbergen's  murky  noon, 
Gleaming  across  her  fields  of  ancient  snow, 
Unstained  by  the  red  war-print.     For  I  doubt  not 
That  there  are  thousands  of  these  hidden  nooks, 
In  deep  Brazilian  forest,  where  the  palm 
And  myrtle  intertwine,  like  strength  and  beauty  ; 
Or  Cuban  meadows,  sloping  to  the  sea, 
Where  the  luxuriant  wild-flowers  strew  the  plain, 
And  make  a  western  Paradise,  a  strange, 
Bright  realm  of  fragrance,  where  all  various  forms 
And  hues  are  seen  that  eye  can  revel  in  ; 
Wild  virgin  landscapes,  stretching  everywhere 
O'er  pathless  continents,  which  human  vision 
Has  never  yet  been  gladdened  with,  true  mines 
Of  silent  wealth,  untouched,  and  yet  to  yield 
Their  treasures  to  the  gazer,  and  to  fill 
Millions  of  souls  with  wonder  or  with  love  ! 

'  Scenes  are  there  of  the  cliff  or  strand,  to  haunt 
The  dreams  of  poet,  or,  more  blessed  still, 
To  mould  a  nation's  heart  and  change  the  currents 
Of  its  great  history,  as  rocks  the  stream, 
Roughening  the  water,  but  imparting  force, 
And  drawing  out  the  hidden  life  below : 
And  mazy  glens  there  are,  walled  in  with  rocks, 
Thro'  which  the  torrent  leaps,  and,  as  it  leaps, 
Calls  out  a  world  of  echoes  ;  where  above 
Perches  the  lonely  pine  or  shining  birch, 
And  in  its  hollow  nestles  the  wild  rose  ; 
While  right  across  the  abyss  of  spray  and  foam 
Sails  the  strong  eagle  on  its  way  to  heaven. 

1  Ye  hoary  regions  of  the  silent  pole, 


234  MY  OLD  LETTERS.        [line  363. 

With  your  chaste  coverlets  of  virgin  snow, 

Your  boundless  fields  of  everlasting  ice, 

And  peaks  that  poise  the  north-star  far  on  high, — 

How  I  should  joy,  tho'  but  for  one  brief  day, 

To  gaze  upon  your  mute  magnificence  ; 

The  deep,  stern  stillness  of  the  frozen  air  ; 

The  never-setting  sun,  that  mocks  the  plains 

With  its  faint  warmth ;  the  ever-floating  mists, 

That  wander  ghost-like  through  the  shivering  sky  ;     , 

The  blue,  cold  shadows  hovering  everywhere ; 

The  cliffs  that  overhang  a  world  of  death  ; 

The  roll  of  the  long  line  of  surf,  that  falls 

And  rises,  as  it  moans  along  the  strand  ; 

The  melancholy  waterfall  that  pours 

From  the  vast  iceberg  as  it  melts  at  noon, 

Unseen  and  unadmired  by  human  eye, 

In  chill  monotony  upon  the  wave  ; 

The  harsh  dull  grating  of  the  crystal  blocks, 

As,  one  by  one,  they  strike  and  grind  and  fall ; 

The  lonely  sea-gulls  perched  upon  the  ice 

Or  rocked  upon  the  swell ;  the  snowy  bear, 

Prowling  amid  the  drift  to  seize  its  prey  ; 

The  seal  and  walrus  stretched  upon  the  floe  ; 

The  grey  fox  stealing  o'er  the  ice-bound  stones  ; 

The  treeless,  shrubless,  flowerless  wastes  of  snow, 

With  only  the  dark  lichen  on  the  crag, 

Last  spark  of  nature's  unextinguished  fire  : 

All  numbness  and  all  death ;  no  May-day  glow, 

No  frost-dissolving  warmth,  no  living  sunshine, 

No  blossoms  bursting  to  the  April  breeze, 

No  dew  upon  the  face  of  the  dead  soil, 


line  394.]  BOOK  IX.  235 

No  streamlet  tumbling  like  a  playful  child 
Between  its  banks  of  willow  or  of  moss  ; 
But  tyrannous  winter,  crushing  hill  and  vale 
Beneath  its  weight  of  never-yielding  snow, 
And  breathing  death  into  the  dull,  hard  air ; 
As  if  there  were  two  worlds  upon  this  globe, 
One  green  as  paradise,  the  other  pale, 
Like  splintered  fragment  of  the  marble  moon. 

1  Of  men  and  things  beyond  life's  little  range, 
Visions  and  memories  and  hopes  gone  by, 
Yet  vivid  still  and  verdant  as  of  old, 
Speaks  this  fair  dawn-break,  upon  which  I  gaze 
While  seated  here,  and  watching  while  I  sit 
The  iridescence  of  yon  twilight  sky, 
With  its  unrisen  sun  and  fading  stars, 
Each  in  its  order  passing  out  of  sight  ; 
The  last,  the  loveliest,  as  it  vanishes, 
Buried  in  brightness  brighter  than  its  own. 
See  how  each  trembler  sinks  into  the  blue, 
Dissolved  like  snow-flake  in  the  hungry  wave  ; 
Becoming  part  of  the  pale  golden  dome 
In  wrhich  its  light  like  a  rich  pearl  was  set, 
Ere  sunshine,  fusing  with  its  magic  skill 
The  gem  and  its  soft  setting  into  one, 
Hid  in  the  glow  of  morn  the  star  of  night, 
Till  eve,  with  resurrection-power,  once  more 
Shall  bring  it  up  in  beauty  from  the  tomb. 

'  How  various  in  its  power  to  please  and  cheer 
Is  that  which  we  call  nature  !     Yet  I  find 
Ofttimes  the  change  is  all  within  myself, 
And  not  in  her.     I  change,  and  change  again ; 


36  MY  OLD  LETTERS.  [line  425. 

And  the  same  scene  seems  either  dark  or  bright, 

As  is  the  varying  mood  in  which  I  see  it. 

It  was  but  yesterday  I  looked  around 

Upon  a  wondrous  sweep  of  scene,  spread  out 

In  loveliness  of  forest,  vale,  and  stream  ; 

Yet  I  saw  nothing  save  a  blank,  bleak  outline, 

From  which  had  fled  all  greatness  and  all  soul. 

To-day  I  wander  out,  and  the  same  scene 

Unrolls  its  marvels,  and  my  soul  is  tranced. 

The  landscape  is  too  vast,  too  rich,  for  eye 

To  take  in  half  its  splendour  and  its  joy. 

It  seemed  as  if  some  spirit  had  gone  forth 

From  my  own  inner  man,  and  overspread 

With  a  glad  veil  of  life  and  loveliness 

A  scene  which  yesterday  was  dead  and  cold, 

Without  a  meaning  and  without  a  soul, 

As  if  no  pulse  were  beating,  and  no  voice 

Were  coming  up  from  lips  once  soft  with  song. 

'  What  I  have  seen  of  cities  far  and  near, 
Ruined  or  still  robust  in  manhood's  growth, 
But  makes  me  long  to  see  what  once  was  seen 
Upon  this  earth,  of  grandeur  or  of  grace, 
In  cities  that  have  perished,  leaving  but 
The  fragment  of  a  name,  round  which  have  sprung 
Fables  like  weeds,  or  noble  legends  like 
The  ivy  ever  bright,  to  deck  their  stones. 
Sea-buried  Tyre,  or  sand-swept  Nineveh  ; 
The  hundred-gated  Thebes,  the  wasted  Troy  ; 
Carthage,  the  mighty  city  of  the  sea, 
Phoenicia's  younger  daughter,  like  her  parent, 
Renowned  alike  in  commerce  and  in  war, 


line  456.]  BOOK  IX.  237 

City  and  port  and  empire  all  in  one, 

The  more  than  Venice  of  the  ancient  earth, 

Which  in  a  night  went  o'er  the  cataract, 

And  vanished,  flung  into  Time's  oubliette, 

Down  which  all  things  have  disappeared,  or  shall 

Ere  long,  the  best  and  worst,  the  great  and  small, 

Kingdoms  and  kings,  the  doer  and  the  deed, 

The  thinker  and  the  thought ;  all  things  except 

The  few  which  history  in  her  caprice 

Has  plucked  from  dull  oblivion  ;  hopes  and  fears, 

The  joys  and  sorrows  of  a  human  heart, 

The  infant's  smile  and  age's  long-drawn  sigh, 

The  broken  fortunes  and  the  withered  strength 

Of  families  and  realms  long  passed  away  ; — 

Down  which  have  sunk  not  only  man  himself, 

But  his  most  stable  handiworks, — the  tower, 

The  gate,  the  column,  and  the  obelisk, 

The  temple  and  the  palace  and  the  hall, 

The  glory  or  the  shame  of  ages  gone. 

'  From  the  dull  morn  of  yesterday  until 
To-day,  and  from  to-day  until  to-morrow, 
And  from  to-morrow  till  the  day  that  follows, 
There  are  but  as  three  sand-grains  on  the  shore, 
Three  oscillations  of  Time's  pendulum, 
Three  atoms  of  our  vast  infinity. 
And  yet  in  these  how  much  has  come  and  gone 
Of  sorrow  and  of  joy,  of  death  and  life  ! 
How  much  of  the  strange  infinite  of  man 
Has  been  begun  that  ne'er  shall  have  an  end  ! 
For  nothing  ceases,  tho'  from  memory 
And  eye  it  vanishes,  as  lost  for  ever, 


238  MY  OLD  LETTERS.         [LINE  487. 

But  still  prolongs  its  motion  or  its  being. 

All  things  beget,  and  in  their  offspring  live, 

For  evil  or  for  good,  still  on  and  on. 

Nothing  is  revocable  :  all  things  said 

Or  done  by  the  obscurest  child  of  earth 

Speed  on  their  arrowy  way  ;  and  wide  and  far 

Send  out  thro'  time  and  space  their  widening  waves, 

In  everlasting  undulations  round 

The  universe,  for  better  or  for  worse. 

And  sometimes  that  which  has  been  left  unsaid 

Or  left  undone  (which  ought  to  have  been  done 

And  spoken  when  the  speaking  and  the  doing 

Would  have  borne  fruit  for  ages)  makes  a  blank 

Which  nothing  can  replace,  and  draws  on  issues 

Greater  than  that  which  has  been  said  or  done. 

'  The  infant's  finger,  with  unconscious  touch, 
Raises  the  ripple  on  the  summer-sea 
Which  the  strong  man  is  impotent  to  smooth. 
Millions  of  arrows  shot  by  human  hands 
Into  the  infinite  of  space  and  time, 
Often  without  a  thought,  without  an  aim, 
Must  wander  onward,  in  diverging  flight, 
To  tell  upon  the  universe  for  ever. 

*  Some  have  the  wisdom,  others  have  the  gold  ; 
A  few, — their  number  is  but  small, — have  both. 
What  is  the  world  the  better  for  it  all  ? 
Some  doat  on  riches,  others  worship  power ; 
Some  bend  the  knee  to  fortune  or  to  fate, 
Others  look  down  on  life  with  folded  hands  ; 
Some  dream  their  days  out,  tangled  in  the  snares 
Of  potent  beauty,  hiding  heaven  from  man  ; 


line  5 1 8.]  BOOK  IX.  239 

And  others  know  not  what  it  is  to  love, 
But  float  along  in  frozen  selfishness, 
Like  icy  fragments  when  the  rivers  melt. 
Strange  world  !     Strange  dreams  !     So  soon,  so  soon 
to  end  ! ' 

Thus  writes  the  friend  whose  name  I  do  not  name, 
Who  made  his  earnest  way  thro'  life,  and  sowed 
Seeds  as  he  passed  along,  and  left  the  earth 
Richer,  not  poorer,  for  his  being  here. 
And  musing  o'er  his  fruitful  days,  I  said, — 
Some  lives  are  great  in  fame,  and  other  some, 
Not  great,  are  useful,  filling  up  the  space 
Allotted  them  with  noble  days  and  deeds. 
They  move  on  bravely,  and  they  reach  the  goal  ; 
They  do  not  say  and  unsay,  do  and  undo, 
Leaving  behind  them  not  one  stedfast  wrord, 
No  high  consistency  of  life-long  work  ; 
They  do  not  wind  about  upon  themselves, 
Denying  all  that  once  they  boldly  held  ; 
Xor  move  along  without  advancing,  like 
The  idle  skiff  that  drifts,  it  knows  not  whither, 
And  at  the  weary  day's  end  finds  itself 
Returning  back  to  where  it  left  at  noon. 

Steer  for  the  haven  with  steady  hand  and  helm  ; 
Press  to  the  noble  end ;  work  out  your  work 
Till  it  is  done  ;  slack  not  your  energy 
Nor  stay  your  pace  because  the  way  is  long. 
Faint  not,  but  work  ;  the  world  is  calling  loud 
For  fearless  workmen  in  its  day  of  need. 
Shrink  not,  but  work  ;  the  Master  needeth  thee  : 
One  sickle-stroke  will  not  the  harvest  reap  ; 


240  MY  OLD  LETTERS.         [line  548. 

One  blow  will  not  bring  down  the  forest-oak  ; 
One  oar-sweep  will  not  fetch  the  boat  to  land. 

Truth  takes  the  shape  of  work  ;  as  seed  it  goes 
Throughout  the  nations,  visible  and  great. 
Truth  takes  the  form  of  facts,  and  out  of  these, 
As  from  eternal  seed,  it  springs,  and  spreads 
Over  all  climes  and  ages.     Let  thy  life 
Be  truth  in  every  part ;  so  written  down 
And  so  translated  as  that  all  may  read. 
Once  He  was  here  on  earth,  who  spoke  and  did 
As  none  have  ever  done  before  or  since  ; 
For  all  His  words  were  works,  His  works  were  words, 
The  words  and  works  of  everlasting  health. 
Poor  is  that  word,  by  whomsoever  spoken, 
Or  wheresoever,  that  becometh  not 
A  work  ;  and  poor  the  work,  however  great 
It  seem,  that  is  not  in  itself  a  word 
Laden  with  truth  that  dies  not,  nor  grows  old. 

Look  full  into  the  future :  it  is  thine. 
Thy  path  lies  yonder  ;  thou  must  tread  it  all, 
And  not  another  for  thee  ;  'tis  thine  own. 
Let  the  clear  eye  show  the  clear  conscience,  purged 
From  guilt's  disquietude  by  that  which  brings 
A  righteous  peace  to  the  tormented  spirit. 
Know  Him  to  whom  that  future  all  belongs, 
And  fear  not  then  to  gaze  into  its  depths. 
The  gate  is  open,  and  He  leads  thee  in  ; 
lie  shows  thee  what  is  coming,  and  He  bids 
Thee  measure  well  the  present  by  the  future, 
The  narrow  HOW  by  the  far-ranging  thai. 
lie  points  to  ripened  evil,  ripened  good, 


line  579.]  BOOK  IX.  241 

And  by  the  ripe  fruit  bids  thee  judge  the  tree. 
He  takes  thee  to  the  loftiest  peak,  and  says, 
Look  down  afar,  and  see  the  distant  light 
Of  rising  suns,  or  suns  about  to  rise 
Upon  the  crests  of  the  eternal  hills  ; 
Hear  the  keen  echoes  of  the  far-off  joy  ; 
Inhale  the  fragrance  of  the  myrrh  and  balm 
Wafted  to  us  upon  the  wakeful  breeze, 
That  wanders  downward,  from  the  paradise 
Which  lies  beyond  the  sepulchres  of  earth. 
Look  full  into  that  future,  and  take  on 
Its  colours  and  its  odours  and  its  form. 
Live  in  it  now,  and  it  will  mould  thy  being ; 
Seek  to  be  now  what  thou  shalt  be  hereafter. 
There  is  a  holy  city  for  the  holy  ; 
Live  as  its  citizens,  and  learn  its  ways, 
Its  laws,  its  customs,  its  companionships. 
There  is  a  home  of  peace  for  men  of  peace  ; 
Seat  thyself  under  its  eternal  palms, 
By  the  life-river  which  is  flowing  there, 
All  crystal,  clearer  than  the  sunny  Nile, 
Or  shaded  Jordan,  or  the  mountain-streams 
Whose  living  silver-gleams  make  glad  the  vales 
Of  the  dear  northern  land  which  we  call  home  ; 
Drink  in  its  melodies,  and  steep  thine  eyes 
In  its  pure  glory,  as  it  shines  afar ; 
Taste  thou  the  earnest  of  its  royal  wine  ; 
Put  on  its  raiment  of  unearthly  white, 
And  learn  the  love  that  has  its  fountain  there. 
Here  sorrow  lingers,  joy  goes  by  in  haste  ; 
The  rainbow  vanishes,  the  cloud  remains  : 

Q 


?42  MY  OLD  LETTERS.         [line  6io. 

There  joy  abides,  and  grief  has  fled  away ; 
The  cloud  is  gone,  the  brightness  never  dies. 

The  future  moulds  the  man  ;  to-morrow's  sun 
Shines  sweetly  on  to-day  ;  hope  ripens  us, — 
Like  double  sunshine,  east  and  wrest,  above, 
Behind  us,  and  in  front, — before  our  time. 
Our  guardian  angel  thou,  unseen,  unheard 
In  thy  quick  motions  round  us,  sky-born  Hope, 
Stooping  each  hour  to  cheer  us  and  to  bless, 
In  all  the  invisible  gentleness  of  love, 
Which  knows  no  weariness  nor  stint  in  giving 
To  the  beloved  one  its  silent  joy ! 

We  nerve  ourselves  for  toil  by  looking  onward 
Into  the  splendour  wherein  all  shall  end. 
Toil  tries  the  spirit,  but  evokes  the  man. 
In  this  our  day  of  poverty  we  live 
On  the  forepayment  of  our  recompense  ; 
We  trade  on  borrowed  wisdom,  and  the  strength 
Of  those  to  whom  a  double  portion  came. 
The  vine-twig  clasps  the  elm ;  the  ivy  makes 
The  ruined  tower  its  ladder  for  ascent. 
Thus  we  enjoy  another's  wealth ;  and  yet 
We  make  him  none  the  poorer,  but  more  rich, 
As  having  filled  a  thousand  vessels,  yet 
Himself  o'erbrimming  still,  like  the  full  sun. 
Thus  we  increase  our  present  joy  by  thoughts 
Of  the  large  future,  our  fair  heritage, 
To  which,  with  strenuous  step,  we  hasten  on. 
The  Church  anticipates  her  holiday, 
And  keepeth  festival  before  the  time. 
She  celebrates  her  final  victory 


line  641.]  BOOK  IX.  243 

In  thickest  of  the  fight,  when  enemies 

Swarm  round  her,  like  the  furious  breakers  round 

The  solitary  lighthouse  far  at  sea. 

Gaze  out  into  God's  future:  He  has  drawn 
Aside  some  little  foldings  of  the  veil, 
And  shown  us  issues  which  man  dreams  not  of, 
Outlines  of  mighty  thoughts  and  purposes 
Concerning  us  and  this  fair  earth  of  ours, — 
The  haunt  of  evil  now  and  death,  ere  long 
To  be  the  final  seat  of  life  and  good. 
Study  His  plan  of  progress  and  ascent ; 
So  shall  man's  dreams  and  fables  cease  to  charm. 
Filled  with  Himself  and  with  His  glory,  see 
How  it  reveals  the  grandeur  of  His  throne  : 
Foreshadowing  the  coming  reign  of  good 
Under  the  holy  King,  it  tells  us  what 
A  king  should  be,  and  how  the  thrones  of  earth 
Should  represent  His  kingdom,  how  its  crowns 
Should  speak  of  Him  to  whom  they  all  belong, 
And  on  whose  head  they  shall  ere  long  be  set; 
Foretokening  the  coming  reign  of  truth 
Under  the  Prince  of  truth,  it  bids  us  shun 
The  falsehoods  that  are  darkening  the  earth, 
And,  with  the  name  of  light,  bewildering  eyes 
That  once  were  looking  for  the  star  of  dawn. 

Some  love  the  lie,  and  spend  their  hollow  life 
In  spreading  it  because  they  love  it,  or 
Because  they  look  with  evil  eye  upon 
The  truth,  as  that  which  frowns  upon  their  sin. 
Some  cheat  themselves  into  the  fond  belief 
Of  falsehood,  as  a  thing  most  beautiful ; 


244  MY  OLD  LETTERS.         [line  672. 

Too  beautiful  to  be  untrue  ;  too  bright, 

Even  tho'  delusive,  to  be  flung  away. 

Some  dream  vain  dreams  of  what  this  world  may  be, 

Or  what  it  is  ;  of  what  its  Maker  is 

Or  what  He  ought  to  be  as  Ruler  here, — 

A  Father,  not  a  Judge,  framing  no  laws 

But  those  of  nature,  and  condemning  none, 

But  leaving  each  one  free  to  work  out  all 

The  ill  or  good  that  may  be  born  with  him, 

And  then  to  vanish  out  of  time  and  space, 

As  the  cloud  passes  or  the  leaf  decays, 

Unjudged  for  good  or  evil  done  on  earth. 

Thus  the  two  primal  falsehoods  still  assert 

Their  ancient  sway  o'er  man,  and  permeate 

The  race  with  the  mute  poison  they  distil  : 

1  Ye  shall  not  surely  die  ; '  and  '  ye  shall  be 

As  God,  discerning  both  the  good  and  ill.' 

Light  is  but  one,  and  truth,  like  light,  is  one  ; 
Both  claiming  kindred  with  the  upper  heaven, 
And  both  asserting  for  themselves  the  rights 
Of  pure  and  noble  blood,  the  honour  due 
To  a  divine  and  royal  ancestry. 

Count  not  the  future  a  forbidden  realm 
For  human  footsteps  or  for  mortal  eye  ; 
It  is  the  dwelling-place  of  love  and  joy, 
Where  all  things  true  are  gathered,  where  we  shall 
Keep  the  long  feast  of  life's  great  harvest-home. 
We  need  the  future,  as  we  need  the  past ; 
Unless  with  both,  our  vessel  goes  astray, 
Or  founders  in  the  shifting  gales  of  time. 
The  foreship  and  the  stern  alike  require 


line  703.]  BOOK  IX.  245 

The  anchor  in  the  evil  day  ;  without 

The  beacon  and  the  fog-bell  in  the  night 

Of  mist  and  hurricane,  small  hope  there  is 

Of  weathering  the  storm.     Look  out  beyond 

The  screen  which  unbelief,  or  sense,  or  science 

May  draw  before  your  vision,  as  if  all 

That  unseen  realm,  where  we  so  soon  shall  be, 

Were  the  forbidden  region  into  which 

Whoso  shall  seek  to  penetrate,  tho'  God 

Himself  shall  be  his  guide,  is  but  a  fool. 

The  silent  land,  men  call  it.     Is  it  so  ? 

Is  there  no  sound  because  we  hear  it  not  ? 

Is  it  not  full  of  voices  and  of  song  ? 

None  mute  among  the  dwellers  there  ;  none  slow 

Nor  feeble  in  their  utterance  of  joy. 

All  vocal,  like  the  sound  of  many  streams  : 

There  are  the  harpers,  harping  with  their  harps  ; 

There  the  full  compass  of  all  melody, 

From  hearts  o'erbrimming  with  divinest  peace. 

They  rest  not  there  ;  nor  day  nor  night  they  rest, 

Singing  the  glorious  anthem,  ever  new  ; 

And  this  the  key-note  of  their  endless  lay 

In  the  bright  luminous  day, — Jehovah  reigns. 

All  light  is  from  the  sun.     What  are  the  lamps 
Or  tapers  of  the  earth  ?     What  are  the  sparks 
Or  meteors  of  the  air  ?     The  beacon-lights 
Of  ocean,  what  are  they  ?     The  lanterns  dim, 
WTith  which  men  walk  the  highway  or  the  street, 
What  can  they  do  beyond  the  narrow  ring 
Of  yellow  light,  which  for  an  hour  they  shed 
Upon  the  timorous  and  uncertain  path 


246  MY  OLD  LETTERS.         [line  734. 

Of  him  who  mourns  the  absence  of  the  sun, 
And  longs  for  dawn  as  for  a  port  in  storm  ? 

It  is  but  taper-light  by  which  we  walk 
Here  on  this  earth,  or  at  the  brightest,  but 
Cold  moonshine  ;  for  the  perfect  has  not  come. 
Yet  it  is  coming ;  what  we  know  not  now 
We  shall  hereafter  learn,  when  the  thick  film 
Shall  drop  from  these  dull  eyes,  and  we  shall  know 
As  we  are  known.     Earth,  on  its  wings  of  cloud, 
Rushes  thro'  space,  and  bears  us  swiftly  on 
To  the  long  day.     When  the  high  noon  has  come, 
We  shall  no  more  our  lamps  or  torches  need  ; 
And  all  the  visible  shall  then  be  seen, 
Farthest  and  nearest,  altho'  hidden  now 
From  eyes  which  cannot  pierce  the  distant  dark, 
Nor  the  near  mysteries  which  hem  us  in. 

Man  lights  no  stars :  his  self-made  lamps  are  poor, 
And  but  reveal  the  darkness  of  his  night. 
Man  lights  no  suns  :  his  noblest  science  can 
Create  no  splendour  such  as  morning  brings 
To  the  fair  east,  when  wood  and  wave  with  song 
Welcome  the  dawn.     He  only  who  is  Light, 
In  whom  no  darkness  is  at  all, — He  only 
Creates  and  kindles  suns  ;  and  who,  save  He, 
Creates  for  man's  dark  spirit  that  which  is 
Brighter  than  sun  of  morn  ?     The  light  is  His, 
And  dwells  with  Him.     The  truth  which  is  man's  sun 
Radiates  from  Him  alone  ;  self-kindled  lamps 
Are  but  at  best  as  the  bewildering  flash 
Of  sudden  lightning,  in  a  moment  quenched. 
He  is  Himself  Revealer  and  Revealed. 


line  76s.]  BOOK  IX.  247 

Who  can  reveal  the  Father  but  the  Son  ? 

Who  but  the  Father  can  the  Son  reveal  ? 

Or  who  can  give  us  certainty  but  God  ? 

The  truth  which  man  needs  are  the  things  of  God  ; 

Not  flowers,  nor  rocks,  nor  stars,  nor  suns,  nor  all 

That  dead  or  living  nature  speaks  to  eye 

Or  ear  or  heart.     The  filling  of  the  soul 

Must  come  from  Him  who  filled  the  universe 

With  stars  and  suns.     The  knowing  of  His  name, 

The  finding  of  Himself,  and  of  the  way 

By  which  the  creaturehood  of  earth  can  come 

And  worship  in  His  presence,  from  Himself 

Must  be  derived.     The  voice  of  God  must  speak, 

Or  man  must  err  in  blindness  and  in  gloom. 

The  words  of  God  must  from  the  lips  of  God 

Be  written  down  with  an  eternal  pen, 

Or  man  must  strain  his  eye  till  it  grows  dim, 

Looking  within,  without,  or  near,  or  far, 

In  vain.     His  wisest  and  his  best  may  search 

The  dumb  obscure,  until  despair  benumbs 

The  intellect.     The  unknown  remains  unknown, 

And  man  still  asks  his  fellow,  What  is  truth  ? 

Nature  is  but  the  echo  of  His  voice, 

And  not  the  voice  itself;  'tis  but  the  print 

Of  His  majestic  footstep  on  the  sand, 

But  not  His  feet ;  'tis  but  the  lower  skirt 

Of  His  far-flowing  raiment,  not  Himself. 

The  broken  frame,  the  hollow  cheek,  the  pale 

And  weary  eye,  the  trembling  limb  and  gait, 

But  make  us  ask,  Where  is  the  Perfect  One 

'Mid  all  this  imperfection  here  below  ? 


248  M V  OLD  LETTERS.         [line  796. 

These  heavens  are  fair;   and  yet,  with   all  their 
beauty, 
How  little  they  reveal  of  His  great  being  ; 
How  little  of  His  heart,  with  the  strong  pulses 
Of  its  deep  love  ;  or  of  that  righteousness 
With  which  He  sways  the  universe  !     Still  less 
Can  this  dismantled  earth,  with  pain  and  death, 
With  wars  and  terrors,  sighs  and  burning  tears, 
With  graveyards  where  a  thousand  hopes  and  joys 
Are  buried,  make  known  Him  whose  name  is  Love. 
God  only  can  reveal  Himself;  and  sad 
Must  be  the  thoughtful  man,  if  such  there  be, 
Who,  as  the  sum  of  his  philosophies, 
Proclaims  that  God  has  not  revealed  His  name  ; 
Has  remained  mute,  and  left  His  creature  lone, 
To  grope  in  thickets  which  he  cannot  thread  ; 
Mocking  the  outcries  of  that  mighty  soul 
Which  He  has  given  to  man,  by  drawing  round 
His  glory  the  dull  mist  which  human  eye 
Can  never  pierce  ;  by  uttering  no  voice, 
And  flashing  down  no  glory  and  no  love, 
No  truth,  no  light ;  refusing  to  make  known 
The  infinite,  to  make  the  unseen  seen  ; 
To  give  a  sign  of  life  beyond  that  blue, 
Or  word  of  peace  ;  to  show,  even  from  afar, 
The  gates  of  a  new  city  and  new  realm, 
To  which  man  might  ascend  ;  as  if  He  grudged 
To  His  own  offspring  the  deep  blessedness 
Which  He  Himself  enjoys  ;  as  if  He  sought 
In  selfish  fulness  to  prohibit  man 
Even  from  the  vision  of  1 1  is  outer  heaven. 


line  826.]  BOOK  IX.  249 

0  silent  Deity  !  whom  human  schools 
Of  thought  profess  to  worship,  and  of  whom 
The  poet-sceptic  of  old  Rome  once  sung  ; 
Seated  above  on  thy  cold  marble  throne, — 

If  throne  thou  hast,  or  soul,  or  heart,  or  eye, — 

With  nothing  of  thyself  or  of  thy  love 

To  tell  to  weary,  broken-hearted  man  ; 

Hater,  not  lover  of  thy  children  here, 

Was  it  from  hands  like  thine  those  burning  hearts 

Of  ours  came  forth  ?     From  icy  eyes  like  thine 

Our  human  tears  were  drawn  ?     From  lips  like  thine 

Issued  the  happy  words  that  bind  in  one 

The  sons  and  daughters  of  our  scattered  race  ? 

The  gods  of  Hellas,  at  their  best,  all  clouds, 

The  gods  of  high  philosophy,  all  stone, 

And  truly  named  the  Silences,  are  but 

Reflections  of  a  cold  humanity, 

Whose  unthawed  pulses  have  long  ceased  to  beat. 

The  deities  of  science  own  no  love, 

And  win  no  hearts  ;  in  unresponding  calm, 

If  calm  it  be,  shut  up,  they  but  arrest 

The  music  of  the  spheres,  dislink  the  creature 

From  his  Creator,  sever  heaven  from  earth, 

Pass  out  of  sight  and  hearing,  lest  their  calm 

Should  be  disturbed  by  this  unresting  earth. 

1  take  yon  block  of  marble,  newly  hewn 
From  the  dead  rock ;  I  shape  it  into  beauty, 
The  perfect  loveliness  of  female  grace. 

I  kneel  and  say,  O  marble,  love  me,  love  me ! 
Does  it  say  yes  ?  Do  these  white  eyes  return 
The  glance  of  mine  ?     And  does  that  chiselled  lip 


250  MY  OLD  LETTERS.         [line  857. 

Press  mine  with  fondness  ?     Or  that  perfect  hand 

Clasp  mine  with  woman's  warmth  ?     No  ;  all  is  cold  ; 

No  love,  no  sympathy,  no  heart  is  there. 

Hearts  are  not  for  the  chisel,  and  dear  love 

Has  nought  to  do  with  marble.     So  thy  gods, 

Frigid  philosophy,  where  are  they  all  ? 

Distant,  not  near,  and  chill  as  ice  or  vapour ; 

Gods  without  love,  that  can  give  no  response 

To  the  warm  pulses  of  this  beating  heart, 

Which  nought  can  soothe  but  the  responsive  throb 

Of  one  great  heart  still  warmer  than  itself. 


BOOK    X. 


*  First  blank  in  life,  first  sorrow  of  my  heart ' 

(So  read  I  in  the  record  that  calls  up 

The  days  of  boyhood  as  they  moved  along 

In  shadow  or  in  light,  long  passed  away) ; 

'First  bitter  drop  in  the  sweet  cup  of  youth  I 

My  memory  goes  back  to  the  chill  hour, 

When  he  to  whom  my  reverence  and  love 

Had  early  linked  themselves  went  up  from  us 

To  join  the  heavenly  household,  ere  yet  age 

Had  crushed  him  with  her  threescore  years  and  ten  ; 

All  his  large  learning  gathered  richly  round  him, 

And  his  calm  faith,  that  sought  the  things  unseen, 

Lifting  him  upward,  as  he  walked  beneath 

The  shadow  of  the  cross, — bright  as  bright  noon 

In  all  the  purity  of  noble  life, 

And  all  the  goodness  which  makes  home  a  heaven, 

And  all  the  happy  wisdom  which  leads  on 

The  young  and  buoyant  in  their  fervent  course, 

When  the  ripe  words  dropped  ripely  from  his  lips, 

As  autumn's  fruit  falls  from  the  laden  tree. 

1  Doubly  we  knew  him  ;  more  than  father  he, 
The  teacher  and  companion  of  our  youth  : 
Doubly  he  knew  us,  and  in  us  he  found 


251 


52  MY  OLD  LETTERS.  [LINE  24. 

How  true  the  proverb  of  the  Eastern  sages, 

He  who  instructs  a  child  begets  a  son. 

Doubly  we  loved  him,  and  with  childhood's  trust 

Leant  on  his  arm,  or  clasped  his  willing  hand. 

Playful  and  affable,  he  drew  us  out, 

And  led  us  on  in  safe  and  sunny  ways. 

In  him  we  learned  that  in  simplicity 

Of  nature  is  the  power  to  please  and  mould. 

Knowledge  is  courteous,  and  the  wise  are  good  ; 

The  truly  good  are  simple  and  sincere  ; 

The  great  are  gentle,  and  the  true  are  tender ; 

All  kindness  is  magnetic,  and  all  wisdom  ; — 

One  with  the  other  linked,  they  send  abroad 

A  common  influence  to  win  and  bless. 

'Doubly  we  mourned  him  ;  but  the  grief  moves  on, 
And  loses  its  quick  edge,  or  but  becomes 
A  gentle  shadow  flung  o'er  fiery  youth, 
A  bridle  to  rein  in  the  wayward  speed 
Of  folly  in  the  headlong  race  of  time. 

1  One  also  well  I  knew,  who  passed  away 
In  full  maturity  of  womanhood, 
With  fourscore  autumns  sitting  gently  on  her, 
And  giving  out  their  mingled  light  and  shade, 
Like  laden  fruit-branch  of  the  mellowest  hue, 
In  some  old  orchard  when  the  sun  is  low. 
Meek  with  no  common  meekness,  self-denied, 
Mindful  of  all  around,  she  walked  in  light, 
A  stranger  here,  her  fellowships  above  ; 
Mother  of  children  who  rise  up  to  bless  her, 
And  to  tread  softly  in  her  steps  of  peace. 
My  spirit  clung  to  her,  and  in  the  night 


line  55.]  BOOK  X.  253 

Or  shaded  nook  of  life  still  found  in  her, 
When  other  lights  went  out  or  were  obscured, 
An  inextinguishable  joy;  as  yon  clear  star 
Of  the  deep  sky,  the  star  that  never  sets, 
Midnight's  lone  darling,  so  was  she  to  me. 

'  And  three  I  knew,  caught  from  our  circle  here 
Ere  the  long  shadows  fell  on  them,  or  age 
Had  stolen  their  strength  or  made  their  fragile  forms 
More  fragile  :  wise  and  kind  and  ever  true, 
Yet  hidden,  like  the  silent,  shaded  pool 
Of  some  sweet  streamlet,  from  the  gaze  of  man. 
They  stole  thro'  life  with  such  a  quiet  grace, 
That  no  one  knew  how  much  had  gone  from  us 
Until  we  missed  them,  and  began  to  measure 
The  blank  which  had  been  made  in  home  and  heart. 

*  Him  too  can  I  forget,  a  second  father, 
Who,  when  the  hand  paternal  was  unclasped 
By  death,  took  up  the  hands  of  tender  boyhood, 
And  led  us  on  in  goodness  and  in  truth  ? 
Self-diffident,  yet  able,  above  most, 
To  take  a  higher  place  for  worth  and  wisdom  ; 
Studious,  as  one  who  loved  to  dwell  among 
The  stores  of  other  days  and  other  men, 
Yet  glad  to  share  his  wealth,  and  to  distribute 
To  all  around  the  knowledge  he  had  stored. 
Like  and  yet  unlike  each  of  those  around, 
Links  of  a  golden  chain  we  were  ;  and  he 
Knit  us  together,  and  we  walked  in  love, 
Leaning  and  leaned  upon,  our  sympathies 
Embracing  a  long  past  of  ancestry. 
Of  fathers  and  of  fathers'  fathers,  we 


254  MY  OLD  LETTERS.  [LINE  86. 

Were  undivided  parts  ;  for  are  we  not 

Made  up  of  bits  of  all  our  ancestors  ? 

In  us  they  meet,  and  are  in  us,  or  more 

Or  less,  all  imaged  and  all  reproduced. 

I  have  the  memory  of  a  calm,  bright  day, 

One  of  youth's  holidays,  long  since  gone  by, 

Half-summer  and  half-autumn.     Sky  and  earth 

Were  passing  beautiful ;  and  the  bland  air, 

Sweet  with  the  spoil  of  the  red  clover-bloom, 

And  proud  of  robbery  that  made  it  rich, 

Yet  left  none  poorer,  breathed  in  softness  by. 

The  face  of  ocean,  by  whose  side  we  walked, 

Sheeted  all  over  with  broad-hammered  gold, 

Shone  in  the  glow  of  noon  :  we  loitered  on, 

Mile  after  mile,  upon  the  grassy  bent 

Or  yielding  sand,  chasing  the  slender  wave 

As  it  went  back  into  its  parent-sea, 

Or  with  light  foot  retreating  from  its  flow, 

As  it  returned  and  swept  the  sloping  strand  ; 

Sending  with  oft  unskilful  hand  the  shell 

Across  its  level  face,  and  making  count 

Of  each  successive  bound  along  the  wave. 

We  strolled,  or  stood,  or  lingered  ;  meanwhile  he, 

Our  teacher,  drew  us  on  to  hear  and  learn. 

Too  short  these  noons  ;  too  quickly  fled  these  days  ; 

Only  the  memory  abiding  still, — 

The  scene  all  changed.     The  sand,  the  rock,  the  cave; 

The  small  ravine  down  which  the  rillet  poured ; 

The  grassy  slopes,  with  sea-pink  studded  o'er  ; 

The  shell,  the  shingle,  and  the  bald  bluff  rock, 

Wheie  oft  we  stood  to  hook  the  swarming  fry, — 


line  1 1 7-]  BOOK  X.  255 

All  gone  ;  swept  over  by  the  iron  wheels 

And  iron  pathways  of  this  iron  age, — 

Age  of  the  new,  contemptuous  of  the  old  ; 

Age  of  the  present,  thankless  of  the  past  ; 

That  buries  out  of  sight  her  noblest  dead, 

Or  builds  their  monuments,  or  writes  their  names 

Upon  the  tombstone,  that  she  may  forget 

The  men  themselves,  and  the  great  words  they  spoke. 

1  One  too  I  knew,  cut  down  in  happy  girlhood 
(Her  woman's  love  and  sweetness  buried  with  her) ; 
All  brightness  on  her  brow  and  in  her  eye, 
And  in  the  waving  tresses  which  flowed  down 
Like  sunshine  on  her  bosom,  or  flew  back 
Upon  the  breeze,  as,  with  elastic  step, 
She  headed  her  fair  compeers  in  their  sport, 
Or  climbed  the  cliff,  or  plucked  the  July  rose. 
She  sprung,  then  drooped,  for  the  keen  winter  smote  her ; 
The  scorpion  east  wind  struck  the  tender  bud 
Of  the  half-wakened  spring  :  the  blossom  died, 
And  all  its  fragrance  with  it ;  all  the  love 
Remained  unspoken  ;  all  the  promise  high 
Of  life's  ripe  fruitage  withered  in  an  hour. 
'Twas  a  calm  July  morning  when  she  left  us, 
And  with  sad  hands  we  closed  her  tearless  eyes, — 
Truth-speaking  eyes  of  girlhood,  o'er  whose  blue 
Guile  had  not  drawn  its  dimness,  and  on  which 
But  one  deep  grief  was  written,  when  the  light 
Of  her  young  soul,  the  blue-eyed  fair-haired  boy, 
Child  of  her  love  and  brother  of  her  heart, 
Went  out  and  was  extinguished  as  a  star, 
That  rises  but  to  set  and  disappear. 


256  MY  OLD  LETTERS.         [line  148. 

1  I've  looked  upon  the  face  of  coffined  childhood  : 
Would  that  I  ne'er  may  look  on  it  again  ! 
She  who  lay  shrouded  there  had  been  our  joy  : 
How  much  we  loved  her,  how  we  wept,  when  death, 
The  coward  spoiler,  stole  from  us  our  pearl 
And  left  us  but  the  shell,  I  need  not  say. 
The  tears  are  dried,  long  dried,  nor  do  I  wish 
That  they  again  should  flow  ;  let  it  suffice 
That  they  flowed  once,  and  would  not  be  restrained. 
The  wound  is  cicatrized,  the  pain  is  dulled, 
And  the  sharp  edge  of  grief  is  blunted  now, 
But  can  we  e'er  forget  our  child  of  love  ? — 
Her  low  voice  softer  than  the  plaintive  note 
Of  the  Zenaida  dove,  as  it  sweeps  o'er 
The  sands  of  Florida,  and  melts  the  heart 
Of  the  rough  pirate.     Or  can  I  forget 
The  pleasant  love  that,  like  an  angel,  spoke 
From  the  bright  motion  of  her  clear  blue  eye, 
And  the  quick  twinkle  of  her  laughing  lip, 
Sparkling  with  childhood's  eagerness  of  joy  ? 

*  O  stars  that  never  set,  whose  beams  on  high 
Are  a  perpetual  gladness,  shining  on 
Without  eclipse  or  dimness  ;  into  whose 
Far-sweeping  orbits,  as  ye  march  thro'  space, 
Death  and  its  shadow,  sickness,  come  not  ;  hills 
Upon  whose  peaks  only  the  morning  dwells  ; 
Fields  of  eternal  fragrance  ;  fountains  clear, 
That  well  out  immortality  and  joy  ; 
Sea  of  the  undefiled,  whose  waves  are  light ; 
Streams  of  the  sorrowlcss,  whose  placid  flow 
Is  health  and  mildness  ;  with  no  icy  breeze, 


LINE  179.]  BOOK  X.  257 

No  scourging  east-wind,  how  I  long  for  you  ! 

The  voyage  has  been  rough  ;  the  vessel  rocks, 

And  plunges  thro'  the  brine  ;  the  timbers  creak  ; 

The  strong  masts  bend  ;  o'er  us  the  billows  rush  ; 

Strained  is  the  cordage  ;  every  sail  is  rent ; 

On  every  side  go  down  the  reeling  barques  : 

Yet  we  move  onward,  onward,  onward  still ; 

The  beacon-light  before  us,  and  beyond 

Its  light,  the  haven,  and  beyond  the  haven, 

The  land  without  the  tempest  and  the  wave, 

The  fields  without  the  curse,  or  sign  of  death, 

The  city  of  the  song  that  never  dies. 

Here  we  lie  listening,  while  the  organ's  skill 

Weaves  the  smooth  texture  of  the  pliant  air 

Into  a  web  of  many-coloured  song. 

But  the  notes  die  in  discord,  and  the  song 

Is  ended,  or  in  dirges  passes  down 

To  a  heartbreaking  sadness  that  awakes 

The  cry  of  oft-defeated  hope,  How  long  f 

When  shall  the  harps  of  heaven  wake  up  the  hymns 

In  which  no  exile's  wail  shall  find  a  place  ? 

When  shall  the  gathered  hosts  of  the  redeemed, 

Of  every  clime  and  every  tongue,  begin 

The  home-bright  minstrelsy,  in  which  shall  join 

The  long-hushed  voices,  which  while  here,  so  oft, 

Tho'  with  imperfect  skill  and  faltering  lips, 

Took  up  in  days  of  earthly  weariness 

The  words  prepared  afore  for  the  great  host 

Of  the  unnumbered  and  the  undefiled, 

Assembled  on  the  everlasting  hills  ? 

1  O  wind,  O  twilight  wind,  so  pale  and  calm, 


25S  MY  OLD  LETTERS.         [line  210. 

Bring  back  the  voices  thou  hast  borne  away. 

And  pour  their  love  once  more  into  my  soul ! 

I  know  they  never  can  be  what  they  were  : 

The  soul  has  fled,  the  more  than  fragrant  breath 

That  bore  their  love  to  us  has  died  away. 

I  dig  into  the  tomb,  and  find  but  bones  ; 

The  eye  is  gone,  and  the  delicious  light 

That  flashed  out  from  beneath  its  eyelids  once 

Is  quenched.     I  might,  perchance,  re-light  a  star, 

But  the  dear  starlight  of  a  loving  eye 

Comes  back  no  more  ;  for,  once,  and  only  once, 

Such  living  gladnesses  come  up  ;  they  may 

Have  a  fair  offspring,  but  themselves  return  not 

From  the  deep  tomb  to  which  they  have  gone  down. 

They  print  their  image  and  then  pass  away. 

There  may  be  many  harps,  all  sweet  in  tone, 

But  the  lost  lyre  of  Orpheus  sounds  no  more. 

New  bards  may  yet  arise,  but  only  one 

Sings  of  the  Paradise  that  once  was  lost. 

There  may  be  dreams  and  dreamers  yet  to  come, 

But  the  great  pilgrim-dreamer  dreams  no  more. 

There  may  be  Marathons  in  future  days, 

But  the  great  Marathon  is  past ;  the  thought 

Linked  with  that  battle-field  can  never  be 

Linked  with  another.     Nothing  repeats  itself, 

Nor  can  ;  the  past  can  never  be  the  present, 

Nor  can  the  future  borrow  from  the  past : 

Each  age  does  its  own  work,  then  passes  off, 

Leaving  the  next  to  do  its  destined  work 

For  man  and  for  man's  earth,  for  good  or  ill.' 


line  240.]  BOOK  X.  259 

'  I  see  them  all ; ' — thus  writes  a  trembling  pen, 
Long  since  laid  down,  once  used  so  oft  and  well 
To  send  the  word  of  cheer,  the  cordial  greeting, 
The  homely  news,  the  mirthful  or  the  grave, 
Or  deeper  thoughts  of  peace  and  truth,  to  hearts 
That  waited  for  the  welcome  messenger  ; — 
'  I  see  them  all, — a  goodly  band  they  form, 
The  true  and  trusted  ones  of  earlier  days, 
Over  whose  graves  we  wept  no  hopeless  tears, — 
Land  safely,  one  by  one,  upon  that  shore 
Where  the  dead  live,  and  where  the  sleepers  wake, 
Where  the  closed  eye  reopens  and  relumes, 
Purged  from  this  mortal  film  of  earth  and  sense, 
Which  hid  from  it  the  immortal.     I  am  left 
Behind  them  all  upon  a  broken  barque, 
Out  on  a  surging  sea,  whose  next  high  wave 
Will  fling  me  on  the  strand.     Yet  I  am  glad  ; 
They, — they  are  safe.     It  was  a  strong-limbed  vessel, 
Fitted  to  breast  the  billow,  and  it  held 
One  happy  family,  our  faces  turned 
All  homeward.     Suddenly  the  sky  grew  sad, 
The  swift  storm  smote  us,  and  the  big,  broad  waves 
Burst  heavily  across,  sweeping  away 
One  and  another  and  another  still. 
I  stood  and  gazed.     I  could  not  help  nor  follow  ; 
I  could  but  watch  and  see  them  one  by  one, — 
The  infant,  with  his  fair  and  glossy  curls, 
Like  the  blanched  sea-weed  floating  thro'  the  foam  ; 
The  fond  one  passing  into  womanhood, 
With  her  pale  cheek  and  forehead  marble-pure, 
Thro'  the  cold  breakers  struggling.     How  I  stretched 


260  MY  OLD  LETTERS.         [line  271, 

My  eager  hands  ;  but  till  my  time  arrived 

I  could  not  follow.     I  saw  each  in  safety 

Land  on  the  seaboard  of  an  endless  home. 

The  partings  were  like  swords  within  my  soul, 

But  the  bright  eyes,  as  each  one  reached  the  shore, 

And  leaped  among  the  flowers,  and  looking  back 

To  the  still  struggling  vessel,  waved  the  hand 

In  triumph,  beckoning  me  to  follow  soon, 

Spoke  gladness,  and  dried  up  the  dropping  tears. 

I  was  so  soon  to  follow, — they  were  safe ! 

No  peril  more  for  them  ;  and  the  dear  day 

Of  the  home-meeting  was  at  hand.     I  knew  it, — 

I  knew  it,  and  I  said  Amen,  tho'  left 

Almost  alone  to  fill  up  what  remained 

Of  life,  till  1  should  plunge  into  the  wave 

And  reach  the  loved  ones  landed  long  before. 

1  Not  with  the  blithe  buds  of  the  bursting  spring ; 
Not  with  the  roses  of  the  sun-loved  June ; 
Not  with  the  brown  of  Autumn's  dusky  leaves, 
Sown  broadcast  by  October's  frosty  wind  ; — 
My  chequered  life-path  has  been  strangely  strewn. 
Not  by  the  margin  of  the  burnished  stream, 
Whose  jocund  ripples  speak  perpetual  mirth, 
And  where  the  velvet  verdure  springs  unbidden 
On  footpaths  of  the  rush-embroidered  brook, 
That  winds  and  circles  on  its  sportive  way, 
Sending  up  joy  into  the  hazel  boughs 
That  root  their  freshness  in  its  mossy  stones. 
But  by  the  sharp  edge  of  the  sea-vexed  cliff, 
Beneath  which,  on  the  barren  slope,  are  spread 


line  301.]  BOOK  X.  261 

The  broken  relics  of  a  hundred  storms. 

Not  thro'  Hesperian  gardens,  or  fair  groves 

Of  Syrian  olives,  has  my  journey  been, 

But  o'er  the  moorland,  where  the  shining  furze, 

Shunned  by  the  bee,  waves  fruitless ;  where  the  breeze 

Wounds  while  it  braces, — bids  the  traveller 

Look  to  his  steps  and  gird  his  loosened  loins. 

1  Some  lives  have  ever  been  upon  the  edge 
Of  evil,  yet  have  missed  it ;  the  keen  bolt 
Has  struck  on  this  side  and  on  that,  yet  left 
Them  all  untouched  ;  my  life  has  been  upon 
The  margin  of  the  prosperous,  yet  my  feet 
Have  seldom  crossed  the  line.     I  have  gone  round 
The  sunny  lake,  yet  found  no  skiff  in  which 
I  might  embark,  to  revel  in  the  gleams. 

'Yet  'twas  not  evil  that  thus  threw  its  shade 
Above  me  ;  it  was  good,  tho'  shaped  like  evil, 
And  speaking  with  its  voice  :  it  seemed  to  me 
A  cruel  stranger,  yet  I  found  that  I 
Had  entertained  an  angel  unawares. 
The  evil  came  unasked  ;  shall  not  the  good 
Come  in  still  larger  measure,  when  the  cry 
Of  the  sore  spirit  has  gone  up  to  God  ? 
Does  the  Creator  hate  His  handiwork, 
Or  does  the  Blessed  One  not  love  to  bless, 
And  is  the  Son  of  God  not  pitiful  ? 
Are  not  the  worst  things  that  befall  us  here, 
That  seem  devoid  of  meaning,  or  contain 
The  least  of  love  and  beauty,  those  from  which 
The  heavenly  Alchemist  extracts  the  gold 
That  makes  us  rich  ?     Are  they  not  those  from  which 


262  MY  OLD  LETTERS.         [line  332. 

He  brings  the  plastic  influence  which  moulds 
And  tones  our  being  ?     Shall  we  grudge  the  pain 
Of  the  mysterious  process,  or  recoil 
In  anger  from  the  blessed  hand  that  blest  us  ? 
Break  thou  these  bonds,  I  said,  and  I  shall  soar 
Above  those  bright,  bewildering  snares  of  youth. 
He  took  me  at  my  word  ;  he  smote  my  gods, 
.  And  for  the  ease  which  I  had  looked  for,  gave 
The  thorn  and  sackcloth  of  adversity. 
The  cords  were  cut,  and  yet  I  did  not  rise  ; 
The  ballast  was  flung  out,  but  all  in  vain  ; 
I  needed  more  than  the  mere  broken  chain. 
Earthward  my  spirit  tended,  and  I  needed 
The  buoyancy  of  an  indwelling  power, 
To  lift  me  to  the  heavens ;  without  that  strength, 
That  new  elastic  energy  of  soul, 
All  failure  is  but  shipwreck,  in  whose  shock 
The  vessel  goes  to  pieces,  and  her  freight 
Of  all  things  goodly  sinks  without  a  hope, 
Dragged  down  in  fragments  to  the  silent  gloom 
Of  ocean's  everlasting  solitudes, 
Without  a  monument  or  history. 

*  How  often  in  the  conflict  of  the  soul, 
When  deep  was  calling  unto  deep,  and  all 
Thy  heavy  waves  were  going  over  me, 
Has  the  rebellious  spirit  spoken  out, 
And  sought  to  call  in  other  comforters, 
That  could  administer  no  healing  balm ! 
O  time  and'  change,  I  said,  rub  off  and  blunt 
With  your  subduing  touch  the  edges  keen 
Of  this  pervading  ache,  which  still  returns 


line  363.]  BOOK  X.  263 

Hour  after  hour  with  the  fresh  bitterness 

Of  a  new  sting,  as  if  the  poisoned  shaft 

Were  still  embedded  in  the  fiery  wound. 

Yet  how  shall  time  do  that,  if  God  withhold 

His  touch  divine  of  comfort  and  of  health  ? 

Or  how  shall  change  assuage  the  throbbing  pain, 

If  the  celestial  anodyne  have  failed  ? 

Were  time  (again  I  said)  to  soothe  me  ere 

The  discipline  divine  were  perfected, 

And  the  ripe  end  were  gained,  then  should  I  not 

Lose  the  vast  blessing  thus  in  store  for  me  ? 

'Yet  would  I  say,  as  I  have  spoken  oft, 
To  Him  who  knoweth  all  my  ways  and  wants, — 
"Into  the  blessed  sunshine,  Father,  lead  me! 
Too  long,  it  seems  to  me,  my  life  has  been 
The  shade  and  frost ;  my  being  seems  to  droop, 
Benumbed,  beneath  too  long  a  weariness. 
Lighten  this  load  at  last,  and  swallow  up 
This  lower  sorrow  in  Thy  higher  joy !" 

'Yet  do  I  know  myself?     Or  shall  I  tell 
The  sculptor  where  and  how  to  use  his  chisel  ? 
Does  he  not  know  the  marble  he  has  chosen, 
And  has  he  not  the  mould  before  his  eye  ? 
May  not  the  work  be  further  on  than  I 
In  ignorance  imagine  ?     Could  I  see 
What  he  sees,  in  the  light  of  his  own  day, 
Might  I  not  wonder  and  rejoice,  as  each 
Feature  and  line  and  shade  of  my  old  being 
Has  vanished,  and  the  new  is  rising  up  ? 
Far  more  is  wrought  in  us  than  now  we  know  ; 
And  what  we  know  not  now,  we  shall  hereafter, 


264  MY  OLD  LETTERS.         [line  394. 

When  day  has  burst  and  shadows  fled  away. 
Morn  comes,  and  beauty  comes  to  earth  each  day, 
Revealing  wonders  to  the  enamoured  eye 
That  gazes  from  afar  ;  yet  morn  creates 
Not  one  new  object  for  the  gazer's  vision. 
It  shows  but  what  was  lying  there  before  ; 
It  draws  aside  the  curtain,  and,  as  from 
Some  mystic  fount  of  molten  gold,  it  pours 
Soft  splendour  over  earth,  and  lighteth  up 
Its  fair  pure  face,  still  pale,  and  moistened  o'er 
With  night's  cold  tears.     Sun  of  the  mighty  dawn, 
When  wilt  thou  wake,  and  to  our  waiting  east 
Bring  thy  warm  radiance,  and  reveal  the  grace 
Long  latent  here  beneath  the  veil  of  night  ? 

I  The  waves  are  many,  but  the  sea  is  one  ; 
The  rays  are  many,  but  the  sun  is  one. 

O  oneness  of  this  royal  universe, 
With  all  thy  stars  and  suns  that  float  upon 
The  double  stream  of  endless  space  and  time, 
But  find  no  ocean  into  which  to  pour 
Themselves  and  rest !     Thou  oneness  manifold, 
Speak  out  to  us  of  Him  from  whom  thou  earnest, 
Whose  boundless  wisdom  filleth  all  in  all, 
Unerring,  unconfused,  unfailing  still, 
Thro'  all  the  never-straightening  labyrinths 
Of  force  and  motion  and  resistless  change  ! 

I I  muse  upon  the  genesis  of  time, 
Written  by  Him  who  gave  to  time  its  birth, 
In  the  one  record  out  of  which  we  gather 
The  long  and  varied  story  of  this  earth. 
There  the  beginning  pointeth  to  the  end, 


line  425.]  BOOK  X.  265 

And  there  the  end  points  back  to  the  beginning  ; 
Strange  history  midway,  like  sudden  night, 
Or  like  a  dread  eclipse,  that  maketh  day 
The  more  to  be  desired.     For  first  and  last, 
Light  irrepressible,  tho'  shaded  oft, 
Like  a  rich  clasp  of  gold  has  knit  the  volume 
Within  which  lie  the  immortal  gems  of  thought, 
That  never  shall  grow  dim  or  be  dissolved. 
Bright  the  beginning,  and  as  bright  the  end, 
With  many  a  change  between  of  shade  and  sun.' 

1  Earth's  annals  have  not  yet  been  written  out, 
As  they  shall  one  day  be  ; ' — so  read  I  here, 
In  this  exploring  page,  which  speaks  to  me 
With  the  articulate  voice  of  one  who  had 
Read  and  re-read  the  story  of  our  world, 
Unravelled  its  perplexities,  and  tried 
To  fathom  its  deceptions. — ■  In  the  fight, 
The  soldier  knows  not  how  the  battle  goes  ; 
The  miner  with  his  feeble  lamp  sees  nought 
Beyond  the  swing  of  his  small  pickaxe,  nor 
Fathoms  the  veins  that  lie  on  every  side  ; 
The  lark,  however  high  he  soareth,  cannot 
Measure  the  ridges  of  the  clover  field 
In  which  his  nest  lies  hidden  from  the  eye. 

'  He  only  comprehends  earth's  history 
Who  knows  to  take  the  measure  of  events, 
Or  good  or  ill,  by  superhuman  rule. 
He  only  writes  her  pregnant  annals  truly 
Who  comprehends  the  great  eternal  purpose  ; 
Who  has,  however  dimly,  seen  the  end 


266  MY  OLD  LETTERS.         [line  455. 

Of  these  sad  ages  of  permitted  wrong, 
Of  this  hard  conflict  between  ill  and  good  ; 
Who  has,  but  with  no  human  plummet-line, 
Sounded  the  soul's  abyss,  and  understood 
How  from  one  drop  of  that  which  God  calls  sin 
Has  issued  forth  the  universal  flood 
Of  woe  and  war,  of  passion  and  of  hate, 
Of  blood  and  torture  and  of  broken  hearts, 
Of  lust  and  pride,  ambition  and  revenge  ; 
Who  has,  but  with  no  human  light,  surveyed 
The  wanderings  of  the  race  amid  the  gloom 
And  thickets  of  this  sin-bewildered  earth  ; 
Who,  by  the  light  of  the  one  lamp  which  hangs 
Upon  the  cross  of  Golgotha,  has  turned 
His  own  once-erring  steps  into  the  way 
That  leads  to  the  great  life  beyond  this  death. 

*  Each  story  of  a  soul  is  great ;  but  who 
Shall  write  it,  for  who  knows  what  makes  the  great- 
ness ? 
Or  who  can  sift  it,  and  bring  out  the  grain, 
Winnowed  and  clean  from  the  concealing  chaff? 
Who  can  the  dross  dissever  from  the  gold  ? 
Who  estimate  the  little  or  the  great 
Even  in  one  human  word  ?     Or  who  shake  out 
The  folded  feelings  of  a  human  heart  ? 
Or  who  unwind  the  one  hour's  ravelled  thoughts 
Of  one  poor  mind  even  in  its  idlest  day  ? 

1  The  balances  of  man  are  all  untrue  ; 
His  weights  and  eyes  deceitful.     He  may  write 
The  story  of  a  pebble  or  a  rock, 
The  annals  of  a  beetle  or  a  worm  ; 


line  485.]  BOOK  X.  267 

But  the  great  story  of  his  own  vast  being, 
The  hills  and  valleys  of  his  life,  he  cannot ; 
A  life  made  up  of  but  a  few  short  years, 
And  yet  containing  in  its  troubled  round 
Tempests  and  tides  and  changes,  failures,  conquests, 
In  daily  flux  and  reflux  without  end. 

1  Deep  in  the  facts  of  time  the  thoughts  of  God 
Are  found  embedded,  like  the  golden  ore 
Within  the  rocks,  or  like  the  flower  within 
The  unsightly  seed  ;  no  fact  but  has  a  meaning 
Worthy  of  Him  who  shaped  it,  or  allowed 
It  to  be  shapen  into  what  it  is, — 
The  good,  the  excellence  which  to  Himself 
Belongs  ;  the  evil,  that  which  in  the  creature  still 
Inheres,  by  its  own  law  of  creaturehood ; 
And  each  event  of  earthly  history, 
Each  movement  of  creation's  smallest  atoms, 
Wraps  up  or  manifests  some  thought  or  truth, 
Greater  or  smaller ;  none  is  wholly  barren. 
He  who  best  reads  these  is  the  man  of  thought; 
He  who  misreads,  or  reads  them  not  at  all, 
Treads  under  foot  alike  both  pearl  and  shell. 
Round  one  small  fact. — a  child's  poor  birth  of  old, 
In  a  mean  village, — all  earth's  history 
Revolves,  and  shall  revolve  for  evermore, 
As  round  the  Pleiad  star  the  universe. 
From  the  low  manger-crib,  where  heaven  met  earth, 
And  where  the  eternal  link  was  knit  between  them, 
Like  a  betrothment,  plighting  faith  and  love, 
There  has  burst  forth  a  radiance  that  has  filled 
All  space  to  its  extreme,  and  yet  shall  fill 


268  MY  OLD  LETTERS.         [line  516. 

All  time,  each  far-illuminating  ray 
An  emanation  from  that  village  scene, — 
That  scene  a  fragment  of  earth's  history, 
So  like  the  rest,  that  but  a  few,  whose  eyes 
Could  penetrate  beneath  its  homely  surface, 
Read  aught  in  it  beyond  a  common  birth, — 
A  Hebrew  mother,  and  a  Hebrew  child. 

*  If  God  be  love,  should  not  this  world  have  been 
More  beautiful  by  far  than  now  we  see  it  ? 
So  the  fool  reasons  ;  and  the  wise  are  dumb, 
Afraid  to  answer,  and  ashamed  to  tell 
What  sin  has  done  with  that  which  God  made  good. 

'  Deserts,  where  are  ye  ? — There  are  none  on  earth, 
Nor  throughout  God's  dominions.     Man  calls  that 
A  desert  from  which  he  himself  is  absent ; 
Yet  scenes  and  places  which  contain  the  least 
Of  man  may  hold  in  them  the  most  of  God  ; 
For  the  great  fulness  filleth  all  in  all. 
Man  may  be  far  from  you,  ye  solitudes, 
When  silence  sits  on  every  rock  and  tree, 
And  the  broad  sands  are  dumb  ;  but  God  is  near. 
He  fills  you  like  the  universal  air. 
His  steps  are  everywhere  ;  their  speechless  sound 
Echoes  from  cliff  to  cliff.     His  voice  comes  down 
From  the  tall  peak,  and  spreads  along  the  wild, 
Or  wakes  the  palm  to  music  ;  while  the  moon, 
Spell-bound  above  this  wide  majestic  waste, 
Bends  over  the  vast  plain,  and  sings  of  Him 
In  whom  we  live  and  move  and  have  our  being, 
The  song  that  without  words  speaks  out  His  praise ; 
The  silken  sunbeams,  winking  thro'  the  leaves 


line  547.]  BOOK  X.  269 

Of  the  acacia's  summer-loving  boughs, 
Writes  on  the  silent  sand-waste,  God  IS  LOVE. 
1  There  are  no  solitudes  in  earth  or  heaven  ; 
Fulness  and  speech  and  sweet  society 
Are  everywhere,  except  where  God  is  not. 
All  earth  is  populous,  and  the  still  air 
Has  its  bright  companies,  whose  fellowships 
Greet  us  and  gladden  us  on  every  side. 
There  are  no  solitudes  in  history  ; 
Fulness  is  everywhere  throughout  the  ages, 
That  make  up  the  slow  lifetime  of  our  race  ; 
No  sterile  moorlands  in  these  plains  or  uplands 
Of  the  lonsf  centuries  that  lie  behind  us. 
No  lips  are  dumb  throughout  the  peopled  past ; 
No  voice  but  has  a  music  of  its  own  ; 
No  mute  unconscious  statue  which  has  nought 
To  say  to  those  who  gaze  upon  its  marble. 
O  history  of  man,  thy  wondrous  volumes, 
Or  written  now,  or  to  be  writ  hereafter, 
Contain  in  them  immortal  truth,  or  dark 
Or  bright,  as  each  new  phase  of  being  must, 
In  creatures  God  has  made  ;  such  is  the  greatness 
That  cleaveth  to  the  weakest  and  the  worst 
Atom  of  creaturehood.     Each  thing  below 
Is  eloquent :  not  sun,  nor  moon,  nor  star 
Alone  in  their  majestic  brightness  ;  nor 
Seas,  rivers,  forests  in  their  loveliness  ; 
But  each  small  fragment  of  a  human  life, 
The  life  of  childhood  or  of  poverty, 
Too  mean  for  man  to  notice  or  record, 
Speaks  with  as  true  an  utterance,  and  contains 


2/o  MY  OLD  LETTERS.         [line  578. 

A  deeper  wisdom  and  a  loftier  power. 
No  commonness  nor  littleness  belongs 
To  aught  that  claims  an  everlasting  future, — 
Endless  capacity  for  grief  or  joy, 
Relationship  to  the  Eternal  All. 

*  Hills  of  the  royal  earth,  that  stretch  to  heaven 
Like  ruins  of  a  yet  more  royal  world, 
Once  fair,  but  now  o'erthrown  and  desolate, 
Whose  giant  relics  cover  this  green  round  ;  — 
Or  first-growths  of  a  wondrous  world  to  come, 
When  the  dark  deluge  of  unfathomed  evil 
Shall  be  rolled  off  the  surface  of  our  globe, 
And  the  long-hidden  grandeurs  reappear, 
Fairer  and  nobler  far  than  eye  hath  seen ! 
Hills  of  the  sacred  earth,  designed  by  Him 
Who  drew  it  from  the  void  and  called  it  good, 
To  be  the  dwelling-place  of  holy  men  ; 
Mysterious  peaks,  muffled  in  silver  mist, 
Or  sheathed  in  golden  sunshine  ;  robed  in  snow 
As  with  a  priestly  stole,  or  wreathed  with  green, 
Each  with  his  own  star-broidered  diadem 
Set  on  his  forehead  by  no  earthly  hand ; — 
Wild  ridges  of  the  Syrian  Libanus ; 
Helvetian  Jungfrau  ;  Ida  of  old  Troy, 
That  gazes  on  the  gleaming  Hellespont, 
Mother  of  fountains  and  heroic  streams  ; 
Or  tall  Olympus,  at  whose  verdant  feet 
Sweet  Tempe  slumbers  in  her  loveliness, 
Reputed  haunt  of  fabled  deities  ; 
Asian  Hemodus,  looking  down  afar, 
As  from  a  thousand  watch-towers,  on  the  plains 


line  609.]  BOOK  X.  271 

Of  India,  with  all  their  princely  state  ; — 
Each,  to  his  summit,  every  inch  a  king. 

1  And  yet  with  all  your  greatness,  cliffs  of  earth, 
Mountains  of  west  or  east,  that  lonely  hut 
That  roots  itself  upon  your  lowest  slope, 
And  which  your  pines  or  boulders  almost  bury, 
Contains  a  nobler  piece  of  heavenly  skill, 
A  truer  revelation  of  the  godlike, 
Than  can  be  seen  in  you.     That  human  life, 
Or  fragment  of  it,  that  is  lived  beneath 
Yon  lowly  roof,  has  in  it  more  of  grandeur, 
Wraps  up  within  it  more  of  lofty  truth, 
In  one  hour  of  its  common  history, 
Than  many  thousand  peaks  of  noblest  Alp 
Or  Apennine,  on  which  we  gaze  and  gaze, 
As  on  the  vastest  of  the  works  of  God.' 

*  You  know  my  life,  a  plain  and  common  one ' 
(Writes  the  old  college  friend  who  crossed  the  threshold 
Of  learning's  ancient  porch  along  with  me) ; 
'  No  matter  of  romance,  for  tale  or  song, 
Does  it  contain  ;  a  placid  journey  mine, 
With  but  a  shade  or  two  reminding  me 
That  night  is  on  its  way  to  me,  and  that 
Beyond  the  night  is  day.     I  cannot  tell 
Of  wrecking  tempests  and  of  sinking  barques, 
Of  the  swollen  river  to  be  crossed  when  darkness, 
With  all  its  added  fears,  came  down  on  us, 
Making  the  bravest  shrink.     My  feet  have  trod 
A  smoother  path  than  most ;  and  as  I  look 
Back  on  its  pleasant  windings,  day  by  day, 


:/2  MY  OLD  LETTERS.  [line  639. 

I  wonder  how  I  should  have  stolen  along 
So  tranquilly,  as  if  between  the  storms 
Which  on  the  right  and  left  went  roaring  by. 

'  Sweet  silver  childhood,  like  a  May-day  song, 
Gave  out  its  melody  and  died  in  joy, 
Yet  left  behind  it  life-long  chimes  of  love, 
To  soothe  and  sweeten  all  my  after  years, 
And  with  their  echoes  to  reverberate 
Thro'  every  chamber  of  my  listening  soul, 
Till  the  last  shadow  falls  upon  the  brow, 
And  memory  succumbs  to  palsied  age. 
Immortal  dreams  of  childhood  !     How  I  love 
To  wander  back  with  still  elastic  step 
Amid  the  fragrance  of  your  morning  flowers, 
To  breathe  again  your  soft  delicious  air, 
To  mark  the  present  mingling  with  the  past, 
Like  gold  on  which  a  star  is  shining,  or 
Like  the  sea's  myriad  drops,  exhaled  on  high, 
Returning  to  their  fountains  on  the  hills. 

1  Yet  in  these  dreams  the  land  beyond  the  dream 
Dimly  revealed  itself.     I  caught  the  outline, 
Tho'  but  in  glimpses,  of  its  loveliness, 
And  took  possession  in  my  childish  heart 
Of  the  eternal  heritage,  as  if 
I  were  already  there.     I  heard  the  voice 
Which  spoke  on  earth  as  never  man  had  done, 
All  wisdom  and  all  tenderness ;  I  said, 
Did  He  not  mean  me  when  He  spoke  the  words 
Of  grace  and  welcome  from  His  human  lips? 
Or  would  He  in  His  large  and  lowly  love 
Repel  me,  when  I  took  His  hand  and  asked 


line  670.]  BOOK  X.  273 

That  He  should  lead  me  thro'  the  mists  of  earth 
To  His  own  city,  where  the  holy  dwell  ? 

1  Boyhood  came  up,  and  with  it  also  came 
New  eyes  and  ears,  to  look  and  hear  and  know, — 
More  serious  eyes  and  ears,  tho'  not  less  glad. 
The  soul  was  growing,  and  the  thoughts  went  out 
With  graver  earnestness  to  things  beyond 
The  fairy  landscape  of  our  younger  days. 
The  airy  views  of  childhood  now  dissolved 
In  visions  wider,  fuller  than  the  child 
Had  dreamed  of  in  his  most  fantastic  moods. 
Life's  low  horizon  raised  its  curve,  and  grew 
Larger  and  more  capacious,  falling  back, 
And  leaving  in  the  foreground  ampler  space 
For  action,  and  for  fancy,  and  for  joy. 
The  daisies  vanished,  and  the  roses  came ; 
The  blossom  fell,  and  the  rich  fruit  began 
To  peer  out  from  the  crevices  in  which 
It  had  been  hidden  by  the  tinted  bloom. 
My  feet  sought  loftier  scope ;  my  steps  disdained 
The  common  level  of  the  garden  walk, 
Which  up  till  then  had  been  my  more  than  Tempe. 
They  climbed  the  cliff;  they  swept  along  the  moor. 
The  bee  and  butterfly  were  now  forgot ; 
The  lark  bewitched  me  with  his  dewy  wing, 
And  voice  that  sung  of  sunrise  and  of  heaven, 
As,  like  a  winged  gem,  he  hung  above 
His  low  nest  curtained  round  with  clover  bloom, 
Where  all  night  long  he  dreamed  of  dew  and  flowers. 
The  sea-bird  swung  across  the  whitened  deep, 
Or  dived  for  prey  beneath  its  populous  wave, 


274  MY  OLD  LETTERS.         [line  ;ci. 

Nor  envied  the  white  plumage  of  the  breaker, 
Rejoicing  in  the  purer  snow  that  tipped 
Her  silver  crest,  or  sheathed  her  shining  neck. 
The  bounding  spaniel  breasted  the  red  stream  ; 
The  mountain  goats  toiled  up  their  slippery  way 
To  the  sharp  summit  of  the  naked  peak, 
Wondering  that  I  should  follow  to  a  crag 
Which  only  they  and  the  strong  eagle  knew. 
Wild  cliffs  of  childhood,  what  a  joy  of  spirit 
Were  ye,  in  your  old  grandeur,  when  we  stood 
On  your  bold  height  to  mark  the  rounded  earth, 
Or  watch  the  sparkle  of  the  distant  sail, 
Or  take  the  measure  of  the  ample  sea, 
Longing  to  plunge  in  the  majestic  clouds 
That  hung  upon  its  frontier  !     Here  we  sat, 
And  sung  our  jubilate  to  the  winds, 
Our  hymn  of  morning  as  the  morning  rose, 
And  claimed  for  God  the  first  song  of  the  day, 
While  far  beneath  us  slept  the  sea  of  dawn  : 
Or,  leaning  o'er  the  rock  when  woke  the  storm, 
We  watched  with  ear  and  eye  the  ascending  surge, 
Breaking  beneath,  in  thunder  'gainst  the  wall 
Of  the  wave-chiselled  precipice,  and  smiting 
With  fruitless  vehemence  the  jutting  rounds 
Or  sharp-receding  hollows  of  the  cliff, 
Which  gave  back  every  stroke,  and  sent  aloft 
Their  swelling  tumult,  like  the  echoing  blows 
Upon  the  boss  of  Odin's  shield,  or  sound 
That  filled  fair  Goldau,  when  adown  its  slopes, 
With  its  huge  avalanche  of  woods  and  rocks, 
The  Rossberg  rushed  into  the  fields  below  : 


line  732.]  BOOK  X.  z;s 

Or,  in  the  purple  summer  evening,  lay 

Watching  the  universal  lamp  of  earth 

Go  down  in  the  far  plain  of  the  flushed  sea, 

Where  sky,  and  cloud,  and  wave  were  locked  within 

Each  other,  as  if  woven  into  one  ; 

Spreading  its  changeful  radiance  under  it 

Like  miles  of  beaten  gold,  or  like  the  sparks 

From  the  half-molten  iron  on  the  anvil, 

When  the  high  hammer-stroke  comes  heaving  down. 

*  The  moorland,  too,  in  its  waste  loneliness, 
That  gem  of  untilled  nature,  relic  rare 
Of  the  uncivilised,  untutored  earth, 
Level,  or  heaving  with  a  thousand  swells, 
Was  ever  fair  to  me,  and  wonderful. 
It  won  my  heart,  and  with  its  varied  vastness 
Drew  my  free  footsteps  mile  on  mile  to  roam, 
'Mid  its  bewitching  pathlessness  of  heath, 
O'er  which  the  spotted  moorfowl  hurries  on, 
And  where  the  ladybird  and  dragon-fly 
In  many-coloured  beauty  ply  their  wings, 
Not  without  music  of  their  own,  to  break 
The  drowsy  whisper  of  the  wilderness  ; 
When  shade  and  light,  in  their  still  ebb  and  flow, 
Softening  or  brightening  the  motley  hues 
Of  straggling  shrub  or  ever-verdant  moss, 
Or  wild-flowers  by  the  edge  of  rushy  pool, 
Moved  over  all  and  made  perpetual  change. 

1  Dear  willows  of  the  brook,  old  summer  friends, 
Dropping  your  tresses  o'er  the  welcome  wave, 
And  stretching  over  it  your  ancient  boughs  ! 
How  often  have  I  sat  beneath  your  shade, 


276  MY  OLD  LETTERS.        [line  763. 

To  rest,  and  dream,  and  hear  the  pleasant  song, 
At  noon,  of  eddy  or  low  waterfall ! 

1 1  know,  too, — for  I've  seen  and  shared  it  all, — 
The  keen  unshaded  fervour  of  high  noon 
Upon  that  ruddy  plain,  or  level  flush 
Of  more  than  earthly  glow,  when  the  low  sun 
Sinks  o'er  that  stretch  of  moorland,  when  the  heath 
Is  all  in  harvest-blossom,  sky  and  earth 
Mingling  their  purple  ;  all  the  Occident 
Festooned  with  sunshine,  hung  upon  the  wreaths 
Of  many-folded  clouds.     There,  too,  I've  seen 
Night's  placid  grandeur,  when  the  rounded  moon, 
Like  a  cold  statue  newly  sculptured,  rises 
In  virgin  beauty  on  the  dusky  waste  ; 
Or  when  the  starlight  with  its  diamond  rain, 
As  with  a  spell,  revives  the  weary  flowers. 
I've  seen  the  night  departing  ; — swiftly,  softly, 
It  shakes  its  sable  pinions  and  is  gone ! 
The  red  dawn  breaks  like  an  inflowing  tide, 
And  fills  with  luminous  ripples  all  the  space 
Between  these  island-orbs  that  float  above, 
Till,  in  the  advancing  waters  of  a  light 
Far  brighter  than  their  own,  their  beams  are  buried. 

'  A  storm  is  on  the  moor  !     The  boy  is  there, 
Delighting  in  the  tumult  of  the  scene. 
It  is  the  tempest's  chosen  battle-field; 
Not  even  the  ocean  wilder  or  more  gloomy. 
The  heath  is  surging  into  ruddy  waves, 
Swayed  to  and  fro  by  the  remorseless  gale, 
Yet  un-uprootcd  even  by  the  strokes 
That  snap  the  birch  or  tear  up  the  tall  fir. 


line  794.]  BOOK  X.  277 

The  gorse,  too  slender  to  resist  or  break, 
Bending  and  rising  with  its  feathery  bloom, 
Waves  its  rich  gold,  like  banners  of  a  host 
Gaily  equipped  and  marching  to  the  war. 
The  wild  knoll  grows  still  wilder,  as  if  rocked 
Down  to  its  base  by  the  all-scourging  wind, 
And  shadowed  by  the  dark  clouds  overhead, 
Which  rain  their  fury  on  the  passive  plain, 
And  scoop  sharp  runnels  upon  every  slope. 
It  waits  till  the  fierce  foe  has  spent  his  rage, 
And,  with  no  wreck  upon  its  unscarred  face, 
No  relic  of  the  gale  save  freshened  beauty, 
Shines  out  again  as  if  no  storm  had  swept  it. 

1  Boyhood  soon  dreamed  itself  away ;  too  soon  ! 
I  wished  it,  yet  I  wished  it  not,  to  go. 
Go,  said  I,  go,  but  come  again  ;  and  when 
Thou  goest,  take  not  all  thy  sunshine  with  thee  ; 
I  cannot  part  with  thy  fair  morning  glow. 
Take  not  thy  music  with  thee  when  thou  bidst 
Farewell,  but  pass  it  on  to  manhood,  and 
Let  youth  and  manhood  clasp  each  other's  hands, 
And  move  along  abreast.     It  might  not  be  : 
I  could  not  have  both  noon  and  morn  in  one ; 
For  life  divides  itself,  and  rivers  deep 
Sunder  its  rugged  continents.     Stern  days 
And  sterner  studies  came  ;  still  life  was  fair. 
There  was  a  joy  in  everything,  and  peace, 
Like  a  perpetual  lamp,  not  of  this  earth, 
Shone  in  my  heart,  and  lighted  up  my  steps. 
The  clouds  that  oft  hung  heavily  around, 
And  gathered  up  within  their  bulky  folds 


i;8  MY  OLD  LETTERS.         [line  825. 

The  storms  that  break  the  calm  of  human  hearts, 
And  wreck  the  goodliest  and  most  full  of  hope, 
Went  past  me,  leaving  not  one  broken  flower. 

*  By  the  deep  well  of  knowledge,  softly  fringed 
With  the  green  moss  of  ages,  I  sat  down  ; 
I  looked  into  its  depths,  and  stooped  and  drank ; 
All  love,  divine  and  human,  seemed  within 
My  reach.     Each  draught  refreshed  me,  and  I  drank 
Again,  and  still  again.     I  could  not  stay, 
For  in  the  cup  with  which  I  drew  the  treasure 
From  the  clear  fount,  seemed  magic,  and  the  water, 
With  which  it  sparkled,  quickened  every  part 
Of  my  awakening  spirit ;  and  I  felt, 
With  each  new  draught,  new  vigour  and  new  life 
Perfusing  me,  and  lifting  up  my  soul. 
To  know  seemed  only  worth  the  living  for, 
And  not  to  know  was  like  a  living  death. 

'  All  life  seemed  changing  ;  my  whole  being  woke, 
And  looked  round  on  a  world  which  hitherto 
Had  seemed  what  it  was  not,  or  had  not  seemed 
What  it  in  essence  was.     All  faces  changed, 
All  sounds  and  scenes  ;  the  change  within  myself 
Altered  each  thing  without  me,  giving  depth 
Of  meaning  to  the  meaningless  ;  with  music 
Filling  up  that  which  seemed  unmusical  ; 
Transforming  into  venerable  softness 
Words  which,  when  uttered  first,  perchance  seemed 

rude ; 
Making  even  silence  eloquent ;  the  sweet 
Still  sweetening  ;  the  waves  of  stormy  life 
Smoothing  into  a  bright  and  solemn  calm. 


line  S$ 5.]  BOOK  X.  2/9 

1  Thus  passed  the  day  of  discipline  and  growth  : 
Leaf,  bud,  and  blossom  came  and  disappeared  ; 
The  bubbling  fountain  welled,  and  rose,  and  sunk. 
I  learned  from  failure.     My  successful  plans 
Were  built  on  ruins,  or  it  might  be  ashes, — 
My  own  or  others  ;  daily  teaching  came, 
And  daily  did  I  welcome  it.     I  knew 
Blind  error  sometimes  hath  a  seeing  son  ; 
The  rough,  dark  seed  brings  forth  the  fruitful  tree  ; 
And  the  best  things  are  the  most  deeply  hid, 
Like  pearls  beneath  the  breaker's  restless  foam. 

1  Let  me,  my  friend,  then,  ere  I  close  this  page, 
And  bid  thee,  as  in  duty  bound,  good-night, 
Write  down  for  thee  some  parting  thoughts,  which  I 
Have  gathered  in  my  pilgrimage,  and  which 
Perchance  may  teach  thee  something  that  will  last. 

1  Live  well,  for  thou  shalt  not  live  long  ;  not  broad, 
Tho'  deep,  is  life's  inevitable  stream. 
Gather  up  wisdom  as  you  gather  gold  : 
Buy  it,  but  sell  it  not ;  seek  till  you  find. 
Yet  hoard  not,  like  the  miser ;  freely  give, 
And  in  your  giving  double  all  your  store. 
The  wise  learn  slowly  ;  at  a  single  bound, 
Fools,  clearing  every  fence,  move  o'er  the  field, 
And  at  the  end  are  just  as  at  the  first. 
Thrust  in  your  sickle  everywhere  ;  glean  well, 
And  glean  in  every  field.     Count  none  too  poor 
Or  too  unlikely  for  your  toil.     They  say 
Children  and  fools  are  prophets,  and  that  God 
Supplies  from  His  own  wisdom  what  in  them 
Is  lacking  of  the  full  and  mellow  culture  ; 


23o  MY  OLD  LETTERS.         [line  SS6. 

Even  as  He  feeds  the  ravens,  and  instructs 

The  wren  to  build  a  nest  which  man  in  vain 

May  try  to  imitate.     It  may  be  so  ; 

I  know  not ;  but  I  know  that  from  each  thing 

That  lives  or  moves  or  is,  even  man  may  learn 

Much  of  high  wisdom,  which  if  he  despise, 

He  shall  be  poorer ;  something  which  he  can 

Get  nowhere  else  than  from  the  slighted  lip 

Of  fool  or  child.     Yet  waste  no  strength  on  trifles  ; 

The  lion  hunts  not  ants,  nor  eagles  flies. 

Aim  high,  tho'  not  in  pride,  nor  to  o'ertop 

Your  fellows  here  ;  the  higher  that  you  soar, 

Be  thou  the  lowlier,  for  as  you  rise  and  rise, 

The  purer  is  the  air,  the  wider  is 

The  horizon,  and  the  clouds  are  all  beneath. 

Make  haste  ;  the  loiterer  loses  many  a  scene, 

Which  all  the  flowers  he  gathers  cannot  equal 

Life  is  half-spent  before  we  know  its  worth. 

Be  calm,  tho'  earnest  ;  hold  the  bridle  firm 

Of  fancy  and  of  passion  ;  do  not  say 

That  only  little  souls  and  hearts  are  still. 

Great  is  the  sea,  yet  with  its  mighty  waves 

It  can  sink  down  to  gentleness  and  love. 

All  violence  of  speech  or  deed  is  evil ; 

'Tis  weakness  and  not  strength  to  them  who  use  it. 

Dispute  but  sparingly  ;  the  warmth  of  words 

Warps  judgment,  blunts  the  conscience,  leads  aside 

Into  one-eyed,  one-sided  bitterness. 

In  over-cagcrncss  the  archer  oft 

Misses  the  mark,  and  wounds  both  peace  and  love. 

In  much  debating,  truth  itself  is  lost, 


LINE  917]  BOOK  X.  281 

And  work  is  left  undone.     The  seamen  quarrel, 
And  the  ship  drifts  upon  an  iron  shore  : 
The  shepherds  fight,  and  straightway  comes  the  wolf 
To  snatch  an  easy  prey  from  folds  unwatched. 

'" Error    is    breadth/" — so    runs    the    creed    of 
progress ; 
Error  is  straitness,  and  must  ever  be, 
If  God  Himself,  the  Infinite,  be  TRUTH. 
No  error,  bold  soever  let  it  be, 
Ever  enlarged  or  purified  the  soul. 
Shun  most  the  impure  poet,  who  defiles 
His  God-given  power  of  song,  and  vomits  forth 
His  filth  upon  mankind,  and  leaves  the  world 
Uncleaner  than  he  found  it.     Rather  far 
Would  I,  like  Egypt's  ancient  sons,  bow  down 
To  leek,  or  crocodile,  or  sacred  bull, 
Or  ibis  of  the  plain,  lone  perched  amid 
The  shallows  of  the  melancholy  Nile, 
Than  give  my  homage  to  the  human  brute 
That  fills  his  song  with  oaths  and  lust  and  wine. 
From  the  pure  air  distils  the  heavy  dew  ; 
From  the  bright  petals  of  the  brightest  flowers 
The  poison  comes  ;  so  from  the  book  of  truth 
The  error  that  destroys  is  sucked  by  man. 
In  strife,  if  strife  must  be,  he  suffers  least 
Who  bridles  well  his  lips,  or  steeps  his  pen 
In  charity.     It  is  the  loving  who  are  strong. 
The  great  are  always  pitiful ;  the  true 
Are  tender-hearted,  easy  to  be  won. 
The  blessed  of  the  Blessed  One  is  not 
The  conqueror  ;  no, — but  the  peacemaker,  he 


232  MY  OLD  LETTERS.         [line  947. 

Who  knows  that  sword-wounds  may  be  healed,  but 

hardly 
Those  of  the  tongue,  the  poison  is  so  deadly. 

1  It  is  for  peace  that  arms  are  forged,  not  war; 
And  one  sword  keeps  the  other  in  its  sheath. 
Unstring  the  bow,  shiver  the  spear  in  pieces, — 
Will  human  passion  die,  or  pride  give  way  ? 
Will  the  lie  perish,  and  the  truth  be  king  ? 
Will  lust  of  power,  or  gain,  or  glory  cease 
When  armies  are  disbanded,  when  the  flag 
That  waved  its  colours  over  them  is  rent, 
And  the  war-trumpet  sounds  the  charge  no  more, 
And  the  war-steed  goes  home  to  plough  the  soil  ? 
Man's  heart  is  the  great  arsenal  of  war  ; 
New-mould  it,  purge  it,  and  then  all  is  peace  ; 
Till  then  in  vain  you  blame  the  sword  and  shield. 
The  strong  are  few,  the  feeble  everywhere ; 
The  passive  power  of  weakness  rules  the  world, 
By  numbers  bridling  and  controlling  strength  ; 
And  weakness  is  not  wisdom,  tho'  it  oft 
Has  counterchecked  what  wisdom  would  have  done. 

*  Heaven's  ever-moving  universal  lamp 
Will  do  for  all,  man's  torch  for  barely  one. 
One  word  divine  is  light  for  evermore ; 
The  many  words  of  man  go  out  in  darkness, 
Like  sparks  of  molten  iron  on  the  anvil, 
Or  firefly's  gleam,  which,  though  it  twinkle  bright, 
Is  yet  no  sun  to  light  the  traveller. 
The  arrow  shot,  the  stone  flung  from  the  sling, 
Return  not ;  so  the  sentence  from  the  lips, 
Once  sent,  can  never  be  recalled  ;  'tis  gone, 


line  977.]  BOOK  X.  2S3 

To  wander  onward  thro'  eternity. 

Thy  secret  is  thy  prisoner,  says  the  proverb ; 

But  let  it  go,  tho'  but  a  foot  beyond  thee, 

And  straightway  thou  art  prisoner  to  it. 

He  who  has  enemies  must  not  go  to  sleep ; 

And  foes  are  round  us  in  this  world  of  sin, — ■ 

One  foe  above  the  rest,  who  sleepeth  not ; 

Watch  on  thy  knees  against  that  foe  of  foes. 

Often  behind  the  cross  that  evil  one 

Lurketh,  all  unsuspected  and  unseen, 

And  from  beneath  its  shade  throws  out  his  snares, 

Or  shoots  the  deadliest  of  his  deadly  darts. 

Put  on  the  armour  and  defy  the  foe  ; 

For  armour  better  than  Pelides  wore 

Lies  at  thy  side, — the  armour  forged  in  heaven. 

Then,  tempter,  ply  thy  darts  ;  they  pierce  me  not ! 

1  Be  stable  ;  play  no  double  game,  or  with 
Thyself  or  others  ;  trifle  not  with  truth, 
Or  honesty,  or  conscience.     Ah  !  how  soon 
Do  we  forget  what  we  have  been  and  done, 
And,  as  convenience  asks,  reverse  ourselves 
Like  the  ignoble  wind,  forsworn,  untrusted. 
The  lie,  tho'  fair  in  promise,  wrongs  the  soul, 
And  truth,  tho'  stern,  will  do  thee  good  at  last. 

1  Anchor  thy  soul  on  truth  ;  it  shall  be  well 
With  thee  whatever  tempests  may  arise. 
If  skies  are  ominous,  and  night  is  long, 
And  clouds  are   mustering  where   the   dawn  should 

spring, 
Fold  round  thee  closer  the  celestial  mantle, 
In  which  the  men  of  other  days  went  forth 


284  MY  OLD  LETTERS.      [line  1007 

Upon  their  journey  ;  for  the  road  is  one, 

The  dangers  still  the  same,  both  thine  and  theirs. 

1 A  time  will  come  when  bitter  shall  seem  sweet, 
And  sweet  seem  bitter,  good  and  ill  alike  ; 
When  palm  and  upas,  growing  side  by  side, 
Shall  seem  the  same,  and  men  shall  feed  on  both, 
Pitching  their  tents  beneath  their  common  shadow  ; 
When  sea  and  earth  shall  mingle,  and  when  each 
Shall  vanish  in  the  other  ;  when,  amid 
The  abrasion  of  old  truths  and  creeds,  no  man 
Shall  find  the  landmarks  of  the  certain,  but 
Amid  a  restless  chaos  wander  on. 
Without  a  compass  and  without  a  star. 
May  I  and  mine,  before  that  day  of  evil, 
Be  safely  anchored  where  the  light  is  light, 
And  day  is  day  for  ever,  without  night ; 
Where  sweet  is  sweet,  and  all  the  bitter  gone ! ' 


BOOK    XL 


1  Fair  earth !  with  thy  calm  sun  and  calmer  moon, 
Thy  thoughtful  stars,  like  loving  sentinels 
That  pace  their  rounds  about  thee  day  and  night, 
With  never-slackening  faithfulness  and  care 
Keeping  their  glorious  watch,  and  guarding  thee 
'Gainst  the  rude  darkness  rolling  in  and  in 
From  regions  out  of  sight !     I  call  thee  good, 
As  He  once  called  thee  who  made  thee  so, 
And  made  thee  for  Himself. 

'  All-nurturing  earth ! 
With  thy  soft  couch  and  coverlet  of  green, 
Thy  curtains  of  the  never-fading  azure, 
Which  have  for  ages  rested,  still  the  same 
In  colour  and  in  compass,  on  the  wide 
And  waving  circle  of  a  thousand  plains ! 
Round  thy  rose-braided  waist,  the  constant  sun 
Flingeth  each  morn  his  lover's  arm  of  light, 
Softer  than  down,  and  sings  to  thee  the  songs 
Thou  lovest  best  from  his  own  radiant  lips. 

'  Far-seeing  earth  !  that  lookest  forth  on  space, 
Which,  like  an  unclaimed  common,  sweepeth  out 
Into  the  dim  and  sad  invisible, 
Beyond  the  darkness  and  beyond  the  light, — 

285 


285  MY  OLD  LETTERS.  [line  24. 

Space,  of  which  no  man  knows  the  awful  range, 

The  depth  profound,  or  height  above  alt  scale, 

Haunt  of  old  fable,  home  of  mythic  dreams  ! 

Thine  eye  is  on  each  orb  that  lies  becalmed 

In  the  dim  offing  of  the  universe, 

Like  white  barque  coming  into  sight,  each  one 

Freighted  with  sunbeams  from  some  port  of  light; 

Thyself  unseen,  unnamed,  unknown  by  them, 

In  thy  lone  distance,  as  an  atom  here, 

From  whose  small  compass  millions  of  keen  eyes 

Look  up  and  wonder  at  the  upper  glory 

In  the  star-studded  azure  round  and  round  : 

Thy  garment  the  glad  air,  with  ductile  folds 

Fitting  thee  close,  yet  shaken  by  the  breeze, 

Or  vibrating  with  angry  thunder,  which 

Imparts  its  tremor  to  the  startled  wave, 

And  wakes  it  from  Its  silence  and  its  sleep : 

Thy  veil  the  dreaming  clouds,  behind  whose  folds 

Thou  hidest  thy  fair  brow  from  moon  and  sun ; 

Or  playful  mists  that  wander  to  and  fro, 

Chasing  each  other  over  hill  and  vale  : 

Thy  cincture  the  interminable  main, 

That  untamed  thing  of  beauty  and  of  dread, 

Sparkling  with  everlasting  amethyst, 

Clasped  by  sunrising  and  sunsetting  gold, 

And  on  whose  never-ending  wilderness 

Of  wave  and  foam  the  mimic  stars  each  night 

Perform  with  silver  feet  their  sparkling  dance  : 

Thy  pliant  streams,  with  their  pellucid  chains 

Knitting  the  sundered  realms  and  tribes  of  earth, 

Binding  in  one  her  scattered  provinces, 


line  55.]  BOOK  XL  2S7 

Making  one  realm  of  many,  riveting 
Ocean  and  earth  together,  flinging  out 
Their  silver  network,  never  soiled  by  age, 
Veining  the  hill-slopes  with  their  living  streaks, 
And  clasping  cities  with  their  sunny  zones  : 
Thy  rich  embroidery  of  wood  and  cliff, 
Of  lake  and  vale,  of  mountain  and  fresh  field, 
With  songs  of  wind  that  sweeps  the  unseen  chords 
Of  thy  JEoYmn  harp,  now  loud,  now  low, 
In  storm  or  calm,  with  fragrance  carried  up 
'  From  twice  ten  thousand  blossoms,  all  awake, 
Soothing  and  sweetening  the  unsoiled  air, 
In  the  pale  twilight  or  luxurious  noon. 

1  Gay  orb  !  that  smilest  like  an  emerald 
Within  the  sapphire  casket  of  these  skies, 
That  fold  thee  fondly  in  their  pure  embrace ; 
Thy  depths  unsearchable,  but  filled  with  all 
The  locked-up  secrets  of  His  love  and  power 
Whose  thoughts  are  everlasting  purposes, 
Whose  purposes  are  everlasting  thoughts  ; 
Stored  with  His  truth  and  wisdom  everywhere, — 
In  mystic  cells  beneath,  in  heights  above, 
Of  cloud  and  mountain,  sea,  and  stream,  and  wood, 
Each  with  His  thoughts  impregnated,  and  with 
His  beauty  bright,  in  feature  and  in  form. 

1  Benignant  earth  !  bearing  upon  thy  breast, 
Like  nurse  or  mother,  thy  vast  progeny 
Of  sons  or  daughters  ;  still  sustaining  all, 
Feeding  and  fondling  each,  replenishing 
In  thy  impartial  bounty  all  alike, 
The  lovely  or  unlovely,  great  or  small. 


2S8  MY  OLD  LETTERS.  [line  S6. 

'  Glad  earth !  thy  golden  day  filled  up  each  hour 
With  all  the  sweetness  of  far-travelled  sunshine, 
Arriving  on  thy  shore  from  stranger-lands 
The  messenger  of  heavenly  peace  and  love  ; 
Thy  nights  star-lighted,  or  shot  thro'  with  meteors, — 
Brightest  when  all  thy  dark  is  at  its  darkest, 
Like  planet-lightning  from  another  orb, 
Or  gleam  of  angel's  lantern  flashing  thro' 
The  astonished  midnight,  as  its  bearer  passes 
On  gracious  errand  to  the  sons  of  men. 

1  Dear  ocean,  too, — how  shall  I  speak  of  thee  ? 
Ebb  thou  and  flow,  and  frown  and  smile  and  heave  ; 
Still  be,  as  thou  hast  ever  been  to  me, 
My  friend  of  friends  in  sympathy  of  soul, 
The  partner  of  my  joys  and  hopes  and  griefs  ! 
Thy  voice  is  melody,  thy  breath  is  balm  ; 
Thy  face,  as  the  broad  sun  lights  up  its  lines 
At  noon  or  even,  a  wilderness  of  gold  ; 
Thy  touch  is  magic  to  these  throbbing  veins  ; 
Thy  ripple-song  is  music  to  this  ear, 
Like  an  old  air  perpetually  new, 
All  love  and  life  in  each  familiar  note 
Which  the  free  breeze  draws  from  thy  well-tuned 

strings. 
All  that  I  know  of  beauty  and  of  song 
Is  in  my  vision  ever  knit  with  thee  ! 
In  the  capricious  strains  that  from  thy  harp, 
Wind-swept,  come  forth,  so  varied  and  so  full, 
I  hear  the  compass  of  all  harmony, 
The  terror  and  the  tenderness  of  sound  ; 
The  winds  above  thee  swelling  the  high  chord, 


LiNEiid]  BOOK  XL  289 

And  thou  the  lower  octave  here  below. 
Free  as  the  gales  that  ride  upon  thy  furrows, 
Or  rest  upon  thy  foam  ;  yet  made  for  man, 
Not  man  for  thee  ;  the  common  of  the  nations, 
Which  not  even  she,  who  says  she  rules  the  waves, 
Can  call  her  own,  or  venture  to  enclose. 

'  Great  ocean  !  never  stale,  nor  tame,  nor  poor; 
Yet  still  the  same  in  voice,  and  hue,  and  vastness, 
As  when  yon  azure  awning  first  hung  o'er  thee  ! 
Thy  rocks  grow  grey,  but  still  thy  wave  is  green, 
And  ever  young,  as  when  the  first  sun  rose 
Upon  thy  face  and  drew  forth  all  its  smiles  ; 
Thy  Occidental  wave  as  full,  as  when 
Long  since  it  rolled  before  the  imperious  gale, 
And  carved  old  Scotland's  rockwork  of  the  west 
Into  a  thousand  bays  and  caves  and  isles, — 
The  home  of  mist,  of  shadow,  and  of  foam  ; 
Thy  breakers  still  as  strong  as  when  they  struck 
The  splitting  cliffs  of  Thracian  Chersonese, 
And  breached  the  Dardanelles,  or  open  flung 
The  gates  of  Calpe,  to  let  in  the  storms 
Of  the  far  west  upon  the  inland  lake 
That  knits  three  continents,  and  drops  its  freshness 
Upon  the  verdure  of  a  hundred  isles. 

1  Companion  of  my  sweetest  solitude, 
I  lock  my  arm  in  thine,  and  roam  along 
Thy  margin,  still  conversing  with  thy  waves ! 
I  dream  of  thee  ;  my  thoughts,  like  happy  clouds, 
Float  o'er  thy  wind-worn  plains  ;  I  fondle  thee, 
As  does  the  child  its  mother,  and  my  eye, 
From  farthest  deserts,  ever  turns  to  thee ! 


2Q0  MY  OLD  LETTERS.  [line  147. 

How  soft  thy  rising  ripple's  cheerful  whisper, 
And  thy  light  wave's  low  wail  along  the  shore, 
When  the  ripe  restless  corn-field,  doubly  yellow 
With  the  low  radiance  of  the  dropping  day, 
Fringes  thy  green  with  gold  !     O  listening  night ! 
With  eyes  and  ears  all  open,  hour  by  hour, 
What  dost  thou  hear  and  see,  when  leaning  o'er 
The  solemn  surge  that  gazes  up  to  thee, 
And  into  thy  profoundest  darkness  sings, 
As  into  the  bright  depths  of  burning  day, 
Its  ever  new  and  ever  ancient  song  ? 
The  melody  of  waves  ascends  to  thee  ; 
From  thee  there  cometh  down,  like  falling  dew, 
The  sparkle  of  a  beauty  never  stale, — 
Some  planet-smile,  or  glow  of  triple  star, 
Sweeter  than  all  the  rest  that  shine  above, 
On  the  expanse  of  the  meek-fronted  heaven. 
What  gems  are  thine,  on  bosom  and  on  brow ! 
Around  thy  neck  heaven's  happy  daisy-chain, 
The  Milky  Way,  that  clasps  thy  stainless  blue  ; 
Around  thy  waist  pearl  upon  pearl  is  sparkling ; 
And  on  thy  rounded  skirts  what  diamonds  hang, 
Which  ages  only  burnish,  and  which  motion, 
Swift  as  the  lightning-shaft,  displaces  not 
From  the  deep  settings  of  their  heavenly  fixture  !  * 

Thus  wrote  in  musing  mood,  with  easy  pen, 
On  this  old  scroll,  the  poet-friend  of  youth, 
The  studious  dreamer,  who  now  dreams  no  more  ; 
For  they  that  are  the  dearest  take  the  lead, 
And  pass  on  swiftest  to  the  resting-place, — 
Bemoan  them  as  we  may, — like  shipwrecked  men, 


line  178.]  BOOK  XL  291 

Brought  all  the  sooner  to  the  quiet  shore. 
For  dreams  exhaust  the  soul  which  they  inspire  ; 
Love  wears  existence  down,  and  these  fresh  lives 
Are  exhalations  which  the  noon  drinks  in. 
I  visit  oft  his  tomb,  and  smooth  the  turf 
That  swells  above  him.     Tis  a  gentle  spot, 
Where  he,  and  not  a  few  like  him,  revered, 
Rest,  after  earth's  brief  weariness.     I  look 
Around  me,  and  I  see  them  all  again, — 
I  see  and  see  not,  for  they  are  not  here  ; 
I  find  nought  but  the  ashes  or  the  dross 
Of  life's  exhausted  mines,  the  crumbled  walls 
Of  Time's  dismantled  forts.     I  multiply 
Figure  on  figure  to  depict  the  scene 
Of  loneliness  and  ruin,  yet  of  hope. 
Here  in  this  graveyard,  with  their  broken  wheels, 
Disyoked  and  idle,  in  confusion  lie 
Life's  empty  chariots,  heaped  above  each  other ; 
The  race  all  run,  the  steeds  like  vapour  vanished, 
And  the  impetuous  charioteer  gone  up 
To  wear  the  garland  that  he  ran  for  here. 
So  muse  I  o'er  his  dust,  and  oft  recall 
The  pleasant  past  of  fellowship  and  joy. 

0  days  for  ever  green,  for  ever  dear ! 
Palm-trees  in  the  now  silent  wilderness 
Of  irrecoverable  youth  ;  glad  isles 

At  which  we  touched,  when  voyaging  across 
That  ocean  which  we  navigate  but  once. 

1  seem  to  see  these  palms,  these  islands  still ; 
Their  glow  is  mellower,  but  yet  matchless  all, 
In  life's  calm  twilight,  like  some  Abenberg 


292  MY  OLD  LETTERS.  [line  209. 

That  catches  the  last  rays  of  the  low  sun, 
When  evening  steals  along  the  Alpine  vale. 

I  found  him  once, — 'tis  an  old  story  now, — 
In  a  soft  morn  of  August  stretched  asleep 
Within  a  shaded  glen,  arched  o'er  and  o'er 
With  pendulous  birch.     The  breeze  went  freshly  by, 
And  the  black  moss  clung  to  the  broken  rocks, 
O'er  which,  thro'  heath  and  fern  and  roses  scant, 
The  runnel  from  the  mountain  trickled  down, 
Groping  its  way  in  darkness  to  the  sea. 
Pale  as  his  own  pale  dream  the  dreamer  lay ; 
Light  fell  upon  his  forehead,  and  his  hand 
Held  fast  the  pen,  as  if  he  still  would  write, 
And  still  would  think.    The  sheep  were  browsing  near, 
And  the  sly  raven  sought  to  steal  the  pages, 
That  flitted  loosely  in  the  busy  wind, 
Taking  their  way  to  the  broad  pool  below. 
I  stopped  the  straying  thoughts,  and  gave  them  back 
To  their  unconscious  owner,  as  he  woke, 
And  thanked  me  for  the  treasure  I  had  saved. 
As  I  returned  the  pages,  thus  I  read 
The  written  thoughts,  not  worthy  to  be  lost :  — 
'  The  basis  of  man's  law  is  sad  despair 
Of  human  rectitude,  or  dark  belief 
Of  ineradicable  ill ;  and  all  in  it 
Is  stern  repression  and  imperious  threat. 
It  is  by  penalties  the  world  is  ruled. 
The  key  to  the  slow  mysteries  of  time 
Is  creature-evil, — the  fragility 
And  helplessness  of  all  that  is  not  God. 
Long  has  man  laboured  with  his  iron  bars 


line  240.]  BOOK  XL  293 

To  imprison  the  volcano,  which  he  hears 

Roaring  beneath  him,  ready  to  devour. 

Long  has  he  toiled,  with  bulwarks  reared  to  heaven, 

To  break  the  rage  of  storms  he  cannot  lay ; 

Or  within  wa'lls  of  stone  to  circumscribe 

The  unblunted  lightning  which  he  cannot  quench. 

He  sees  the  evil,  but  the  cure  he  knows  not  ; — 

And  yet  that  evil  was  his  own  :  'twas  he 

Who  sowed  the  earth  with  poison  ;  who  took  out 

From  the  sweet  air  its  health  ;  who  lighted  up 

The  fires  beneath  ;  who  let  the  tempest  loose, 

At  whose  assaults  he  stands  aghast  in  fear. 

In  the  great  Potter's  moulding  of  this  clay, 

So  perverse  and  rebellious,  we  discern 

Power,  but  more  wisdom.     In  His  purpose  vast, 

Of  still  evoking  light  from  the  abyss 

Of  the  profoundest  gloom,  which  creaturehood 

Has  drawn  around  itself  and  round  its  world, 

We  see  the  patience  of  a  heavenly  love, 

Which  clasps  all  being  in  its  dear  embrace, 

And  seeks  our  love  by  loving  to  the  last ; 

We  hear  the  voice  that  daily  bids  us  rise  ; 

And  all  things  here,  if  rightly  used  by  us, 

Would  help  us  to  obey.     The  hammer-stroke 

That  smites  us  to  the  earth  yet  says,  Arise ; 

Grief  wounds  that  it  may  heal ;  the  steady  drill 

Of  daily  toil  is  that  by  which  brave  men 

Rise  up  into  true  manhood  ;  hunger  calls 

To  the  high  feast,  and  bids  us  diet  on 

The  life-containing  bread,  which  whoso  eats 

Becomes  immortal,  like  the  bread  he  feeds  on.' 


294  AW  OLD  LETTERS.  [line  271, 

We  parted  not  for  hours  ;  the  joyous  day 
Was  far  too  glad  for  parting,  and  the  scene 
Too  fair  not  to  be  revelled  in  together. 
Our  walk  was  by  the  sea,  and  it  was  gold  ; 
We  breathed  the  mountain  air,  and  it  was  balm  ; 
We  drank  the  well,  and  found  its  waters  pure  ; 
We  sought  the  stream,  and  it  was  musical ; 
We  looked  up  to  the  heavens,  and  all  was  light ; 
We  listened  to  the  cuckoo  from  afar, 
Hid  in  the  dreamy  forest,  like  a  brook 
Warbling  unseen  its  happy,  simple  lay. 
So  judged  we  that  a  true  man's  words  and  thoughts 
Should  ever  be.  .  .  .  And  so  it  was  with  him. 
He  did  not  try  to  make  men  think  him  wise, 
By  clothing  his  lean  thoughts  in  broken  mist. 
He  did  not  write  in  ecstasies,  nor  speak 
Mysterious  words  which  have  but  half  a  meaning. 
No  sounding  torrents  rushed  along  his  lines  ; 
Few  seraphs  graced  his  pages  ;  angel-wings 
Were  not  extended  there ,  no  triple  sun 
Burst  from  the  broad,  black  wave,  to  countercheck 
The  hosts  of  stubborn  night.     He  sung  his  song, 
His  own  clear  song,  and  sung  it  well.     Men  heard, 
And  took  in  all  its  melody  and  truth. 
Better  than  oracle  or  mystery 

Was  calm,  full  speech,  which  no  man  might  mistake, 
But  which,  within  each  word,  contained  some  seed 
Of  everlasting  health  and  noble  life, 
Making  this  poor  world  richer  and  more  wise. 

We  took  our  last  look  of  abating  day 
From  that  majestic  pinnacle  of  rock 


line  302.]  BOOK  XL  295 

Which  fronts  the  deep,  and  breasts  the  fretful  wave. 
We  watched  the  struggling  sunshine,  ruby-bright, 
Caught  in  the  meshes  of  the  rising  cloud 
That  swung  across  the  waters,  and  which  seemed 
Part  of  both  sky  and  sea, — more  heaven  than  earth. 

Peace  to  the  pallid  waste,  across  whose  face 
Yon  sea-bird  sails  to  reach  its  craggy  home, 
In  that  lone  island  anchored  far  at  sea, 
The  dread  of  shipwrecked  men,  upon  whose  rocks 
The  laden  merchant  barque  has  gone  to  pieces, 
Strewing  the  shore  with  odours  and  with  gems ! 
Peace  to  the  dying  day,  across  whose  face 
Darkness  is  spreading  deep  her  raven  veil, 
Lest  mocking  eyes  should  look  upon  the  form 
Of  the  unshrouded  and  uncovered  dead  ! 
Calmer  and  calmer  grows  the  calm  night  air, 
Cooling  the  hot  pulse  of  the  fevered  earth.  .  .  . 
And  so  we  turn  our  faces  to  the  east, 
In  hope  of  day  once  more ;  for  always  day 
Is  the  world's  hope,  to  which  she  lifts  her  eye, 
However  weary  and  however  sad 
The  nights  have  been.     Oh  !  soothing  sweet, 
Beyond  what  words  can  utter,  is  the  thought 
That  'mid  the  imperfection  all  around, 
The  perfect  somewhere  does  exist,  instinct 
With  life  unquenchable,  tho'  dormant  now, 
And  that  or  late  or  soon,  'twill  surely  come. 
They  say  that  from  the  far  and  lonely  stars 
There  cometh  heat  to  us  low  dwellers  here ; 
None  from  the  nearer  moon  :  so  the  true  hope, 
Full  of  its  own  unborrowed  warmth  and  light, 


296  MY  OLD  LETTERS.  [line  333. 

Is  better  than  the  nearer  glow  of  things 

Less  real,  though  seeming  greater.     Whether  we 

Are  moving  toward  it,  or  it  to  us, 

It  matters  not  ;  the  meeting  day  must  come, 

When  no  love  shall  be  distant,  and  no  light 

Be  dim  or  trembling.     The  unconscious  earth 

Moves  on  its  way  undrifting,  yet  without 

Or  helm  or  sail  or  pilot ;  so  all  things 

Are  moving  out  of  darkness  into  light, 

Even  when  they  seem  most  still  and  motionless. 

What  the  great  day  may  be,  what  it  may  bring, 

We  know  not.     It  is  said  that  fire  shall  seize 

The  stubborn  earth,  and  take  possession  of 

The  universal  air  ;  that  the  still  stars, 

Their  steerage  gone,  shall  rush  out  into  space, 

Or  crash  together  in  stupendous  ruin, 

Quenching  each  other's  light,  or,  it  may  be, 

Raising  their  blazes  higher  ;  and  that  out 

Of  this  confusion  and  commixture  wild 

Will  rise  the  endless  beauty  and  the  calm 

Of  universal  order,  ne'er  again 

To  be  disturbed  or  marred.     It  may  be  so, 

Or  not ;  a  few  swift  years  will  tell  the  tale. 

Homewards  we  moved,  tho'  slow.     The  listless  winds 
Went  to  and  fro  across  the  sleeping  grass ; 
The  cheerful  waves,  that  slept  not  day  nor  night, 
Sung  their  old  songs  to  us  as  on  we  passed  ; 
And  we  gave  back  the  music,  soft  and  low. 
The  air  was  peace  ;  the  mists  seemed  happy  dreams  ; 
Star-loving  silence  gently  breathed  around  ; 
Night,  with  its  precious  balm  of  secret  health, 


line  364.]  BOOK  XL  297 

Dropped  down  upon  the  wave,  and  filled  the  sky  ; 

One  slender  belt  of  cloud  revealed  the  line 

Where  sky  and  sea  were  meeting  lovingly, 

Each  seeking  for  itself  the  last  embrace 

Of  the  last  sunbeam,  as  it  smiled  adieu 

To  the  dim  hills  of  the  envermeiled  west. 

The  profile  of  dead  nature,  as  it  lay 

Beneath  us  in  the  dimness,  spoke  of  calm 

And  tender  beauty,  such  as  noontide  knows  not, 

With  all  the  sunshine  of  its  glowing  life. 

So  parted  we  that  night :  he  o'er  the  moor. 
That  lay  between  him  and  his  home,  took  way  ; 
I  up  the  mountain  to  the  glen  beyond. 
Dear  paths,  which  steps  of  friendship  have  made  dear  ! 
For  spots  are  holy  which  beloved  feet 
Have  trod,  or  upon  which  beloved  eyes 
Have  gazed.     O  labyrinths  of  love  and  life, 
Of  faith  and  doubt,  of  vision  and  of  blindness, 
Our  being's  daily  riddle  ! — Who  shall  give 
The  unwinding  thread  that  leads  us  calmly  out 
From  your  dim  thickets  into  open  day  ? 

O  earnest  faith,  and  earnest  unbelief ! 
Are  ye  both  one,  as  many  tell  us  now  ? 
And  do  ye  both  conduct  to  one  sure  goal  ? 
Or  as  we  sow  shall  we  not  also  reap  ? 
Eternal  faith,  eternal  unbelief, 
Have  they  not  separate  offsprings  ?     Or  are  both 
The  parents  of  a  boundless  blank  ?     Is  truth 
A  dream,  or  something  colder  than  a  dream  ? 
Is  certainty  a  thing  which  creaturehood 
Can  never  hope  for  ?    Being  and  non-being, 


298  MY  OLD  LETTERS.  [line  395. 

Are  they  the  same, — mere  words  of  man,  no  more  ? 
We  have  lived  long  enough  if  this  be  all. 
Being  of  beings  !     Teach  a  doubting  world 
What  being  is, — what  its  own  being  means  ! 

Days  dimly  pass,  and  I  return  once  more 
To  my  long  work  of  love,  the  folding  out 
And  slow  deciphering  of  these  pages  old, 
In  which  I  live  again  my  former  life, — 
One  life,  yet  many  lives,  I  call  it  truly  ; 
The  lives  of  others  in  their  varied  freshness, 
Like  ivy  twined  in  greenness  round  my  own. 

Here,  then,  folds  out  another  of  these  scrolls  ; 
Old,  but  still  plain  and  legible  ;  half  worn, 
Yet  with  the  small  familiar  characters 
Just  as  they  were  when  first  I  read  its  lines. 
Here  is  the  seal,  sharp  as  when  first  impressed  ; 
One  little  dint  upon  its  edge,  as  if 
The  hand  that  sealed  had  shaken  in  its  pressure. 
Here  are  the  waving  lines,  the  blots,  the  bends, 
And  turns  and  interlinings,  that  reveal 
At  one  quick  glance  the  writer,  and  recall 
The  image  of  remembered  worth  and  sweetness, — 
The  face  of  age  and  wisdom,  yet  of  one 
Far  younger  than  she  seemed  ;  for  change  and  care 
Had  on  her  features  done  their  mellowing  work, 
And  the  whole  womanhood  within  came  out 
In  loving  gentleness  and  patient  grace, 
Sooner  by  many  a  year  than  might  have  been  : 
As  if  in  haste  to  see  the  finished  form, 
Sorrow  had,  in  impatient  eagerness, 


line  425.]  BOOK  XL  299 

Snatched  the  slow  chisel  from  the  lingering  hand 

Of  Time,  and  with  a  cunning  all  its  own, 

Had,  from  the  girl's  bright  buoyancy  of  feature, 

Struck  out  the  staid  maturity  of  woman  ; 

Each  line  a  history,  each  shade  a  record 

Of  conflicts  and  of  hard-won  victory. 

The  dreams  shut  up  within  her  drooping  eyes 

Came  out  and  showed  themselves ;  the  hopes  and 

fears 
That  wrought  within  her  soul  had  found  their  way 
.  To  her  whole  outer  being, — in  her  tones 
Speaking  with  chastened  softness  ;  in  her  steps 
Moving  with  quiet  grace  ;  the  silken  life 
Of  childhood  wrought  with  skill  into  a  texture 
Of  bolder  hue  and  firmer  fibre  ;  yet 
The  woman,  all  the  woman,  still  was  there. 
No  gloom  spoke  from  her  eye,  or  on  her  brow 
Sat  with  a  melancholy  shade  ;  her  lips, 
Fresh  from  some  ruby  mine,  betrayed  their  birth, 
And  sparkled  like  the  morn,  with  earnest  smiles, 
That  spoke  of  the  deep  love  within ;  her  face, 
Quiet  and  lovable,  like  autumn  sunshine, 
Took  and  returned  the  gladness  all  around. 

1  'Tis  light  that  casts  the  shadow,'  thus  she  writes. 
1  And  thus  my  life  has  been  ;  its  many  shades 
Have  come  to  me  as  messengers  of  light, 
And  in  the  shadow  I  could  read  the  sun. 
Life  was  too  bright  for  me  at  first,  it  wrapt 
My  soul  in  ecstasy  and  earthliness. 
This  is  my  resting-place,  I  said  ;  here  is 
My  heaven,  and  these  my  gods  and  goddesses. 


joo  MY  OLD  LETTERS.         [line  455. 

It  was  too  bright  to  last,  yet,  while  it  lasted, 
It  hid  the  better  life  and  brighter  heaven. 

'  The  stroke  of  evil  smote  me,  yet  I  felt 
In  the  sore  smiting  a  deep  joy  begun, 
And  midnight  seemed  to  me  a  softer  noon. 
Out  from  the  dazzling  lamps,  whose  sickening  light 
Filled  the  false  halls  of  gaiety  and  mirth 
And  soul-subduing  music,  to  the  hill, 
Which  night  was  visiting,  I  hastened  forth, 
And  drew  in  with  each  liberated  breath 
What  day  denied  me, — long  and  silent  draughts 
Of  the  delicious  darkness.     Now  the  rock, 
The  desert  rock,  was  smitten  by  the  hand 
That  knew  the  when  and  how  of  smiting  well. 
Forth  gushed  the  heavenly  waters,  never  more 
To  cease  their  flow,  and,  with  their  freshening  stream, 
To  quench  the  thirst,  and  turn  the  wilderness 
Into  a  garden,  where  all  fruits  and  flowers 
Hang  out  their  healing  sweetness,  and  exhale 
Their  blessed  balm  into  the  broken  heart. 

4  The  wine  of  earth,  which  I  had  drunk  so  long 
From  an  o'erbrimming  cup,  had  lost  its  sparkle. 
I  knew  its  adder's  bite,  its  scorpion-sting ; 
I  knew,  too,  how  it  can,  with  secret  spell, 
Intoxicate  and  poison.     It  was  gone : 
The  cup  was  broken  and  the  wine  was  spilt ! 
In  place  of  it  there  came  the  sapphire  cup, 
All  fresh  from  heaven  and  sparkling  with  its  joy, — 
The  cup  of  blessing,  filled  with  wine  of  peace 
And  health  celestial.     Then  I  heard  the  voice 
Speak  from  above  in  solemn  tenderness, 


line  486.]  BOOK  XL  301 

The  voice  of  the  long  slighted  and  despised  : 
"  My  flesh  is  meat,  my  blood  is  drink  indeed." 
I  took  the  cup,  I  drank,  and  found  in  it 
The  wine  of  heaven  to  renovate  and  heal. 

1  For  even  here,  upon  these  famished  plains, 
We  eat  the  bread  that  maketh  dead  men  live, 
The  eternal  loaf  which  feedeth  earth  and  heaven  ; 
We  drink  the  wine  which  sobers  all  who  taste  it, — 
Wine  of  a  vintage  which  earth  knoweth  not ; 
Wine  which  brings  down  the  fevered  pulse  of  sin, 
Making  it  soft  and  gentle  as  a  child's. 

1  Earth's  achings,  too,  I  had  been  made  to  taste ; 
The  sweet  and  bitter  both  had  been  my  lot : 
First  sweet,  then  bitter,  and  both  born  of  time, 
Both  shaken  from  the  world's  enchanted  tree. 
The  sweet  was  passing  sweet  to  me,  the  bitter 
Was  bitterness  in  essence  ;  both  are  now 
Forgotten  like  a  sick  man's  stormy  dreams. 
'Tis  rest,  but  still  the  tempest  shakes  the  sky  ; 
'Tis  peace,  but  battle  thunders  all  around. 

1  Ah,  surely  nothing  ripens  here  below ! 
There  is  no  sunshine  that  can  sweeten  aught. 
Our  autumns  bring  no  mellowing  gentleness  ; 
The  climate  suits  not,  and  the  air  is  chill  ; 
The  winds  that  walk  our  valleys  tear  the  blossoms, 
And  scatter  all  the  love  which  they  enfold ; 
The  mistral  smites  the  Etrurian  olive-bud, 
And  the  sirocco  blights  the  Syrian  bloom. 
Toil,  passion,  fret,  hate, — these  are  not  the  rays 
To  ripen  things  of  heaven  ;  more  genial  far 
Must  be  the  blaze  which  such  soft  service  needs, 


302  MY  OLD  LETTERS.         [line  517. 

Or  which  can  draw  out  all  the  secret  stores 
Of  sweet  and  noble  in  the  soul  of  man 
Or  woman,  till  the  whole  perfection  comes 
At  once,  like  clusters  in  September's  vine. 

*  I  found,  what,  soon  or  late,  all  else  have  known  ; 
That  not  for  ever  is  the  love  of  man 
To  man  on  earth  :  it  breaks,  it  fades,  it  dies. 
The  lightning  strikes  it,  or  the  worm  destroys, 
Or  the  frost  chills  it  into  apathy. 
Man  loves  and  loves  not ;  fondly  doats  to-day, 
To-morrow  freezes  ;  few  love  on  and  on. 
The  truest  love  that  ever  filled  a  soul 
Has  ebbed,  and  left  the  heart  all  barrenness ; — 
The  love  that  never  changes  is  not  here. 
All  round  the  vaults  of  this  our  human  life 
Are  ranged  in  silent  rows  the  empty  jars 
Of  love's  delicious  wine,  exhaled  and  gone, 
Or  spilt  like  water  on  the  absorbing  ground. 

1  The  first  strange  drop  of  wormwood,  as  it  fell 
Into  my  cup,  I  can  remember  well. 
It  was  not  broken  friendship,  loss  of  gold, 
Nor  crushed  ambition,  nor  a  blighted  name, 
Nor  woman's  wounds  of  disappointed  love. 
'Twas  the  slow  death-bed  of  one  dear  as  life, 
Summed  up  in  all  the  sadness  of  that  morn 
When  she  went  up  from  us,  and  left  behind 
Only  the  mortal  raiment,  soon  to  fall 
In  pieces  and  be  laid  beneath  the  turf, 
Till  the  glad  day  of  the  unfolding  comes. 
Death  never  seemed  so  far,  nor  life  so  near'; — 
O  bud  of  beauty,  gem  of  spring  and  hope, 


line  548.]  BOOK  XL  303 

Half  open  and  half  shut,  like  twilight  star 

Ascending  from  the  silence  of  the  sea, 

Girt  with  the  morn,  a  thing  all  light  and  love  ! 

On  thy  smooth  forehead  sat  immortal  youth  ; 

Thy  lip  was  that  of  one  who  could  not  die, — 

Sweetness   and    strength   compounded,  —  which  was 

fullest 
You  could  not  say,  so  perfect  was  the  mixture. 
In  hope  we  long  had  watched  ;  now  hope  is  o'er, 
And  fear  with  hope  ;  anxieties  are  gone, 
Because  the  worst  has  come  ;  the  loved  has  left  us. 
Death  is  the  death  of  care,  even  tho'  it  be 
The  mother  of  all  grief ;  for  care  and  grief, 
Like  two  pale  streams  that  long  have  flowed  together 
Pass  into  one,  and  each  absorbs  the  other. 

1  The  pressure  of  the  hand  had  ceased  ;  the  eye 
Had  lost  its  diamond  sparkle ;  the  cold  cheek 
Grew  colder  still ;  and  the  dishevelled  hair, 
With  its  fair  curls  like  twining  honeysuckle, 
Was  flung  back  on  the  pillow's  love-smoothed  snow  ; 
And  the  full  marble  forehead  now  stood  out 
In  noble  grandeur,  tho'  the  soul  had  left 
That  field,  o'er  which  it  wandered  like  a  star, 
Sometimes  half-hidden,  sometimes  full  as  day, 
Filling  each  vein  and  working  in  each  line 
Of  soft  intelligence  that  quivered  there. 
Life  fluttered  on  a  while,  like  some  maimed  dove 
With  broken  wing  and  bleeding  at  the  heart ; — 
Life,  like  a  flame  just  ready  to  take  wing, 
Sank  and  revived,  departed  and  returned, 
Then  vanished,  and  the  mortal  chill  came  on. 


304  MY  OLD  LETTERS.         [line  578. 

*  How  oft  the  one  that  we  could  spare  the  least 
Is  taken,  and  the  idlers  left  behind  ! 

'  A  mother's  kisses,  like  the  gentle  rain, 
Had  come  down  tenderly  from  day  to  day 
Upon  her  fair  young  face,  and  under  them 
She  grew  to  girlhood,  full  of  budding  hope, 
That  looked  into  the  future  with  an  eye 
That  drank  in  only  gladness  !     Now  she  sleeps, — 
Her  woman's  heart  all  unexpanded  there, 
Her  woman's  love  dried  up  in  its  deep  well, 
When  its  first  overflow  had  just  begun 
In  all  its  sweet  translucency  of  joy  ; 
And  I  have  laid  her  down  for  her  last  rest, 
And  the  long  kiss  has  sealed  the  long  farewell. 

1  If  dreams  have  shadows,  surely  such  are  here  ; 
And  there  she  sleeps,  the  shadow  of  a  dream. 

1  The  light  steals  in  upon  her  parted  hair, 
And  moves  across  her  brow,  ere  death  has  made 
Her  all  his  own.     How  bright  that  sudden  gleam, 
How  softly  has  she  fallen  asleep  beneath  it, 
Like  snow-peak  welcoming  the  sun's  last  ray, 
When  twilight  creeps  along  the  darkening  plains  ! 
Life  touched  her  gently  all  her  girlhood  thro' ; 
But  little  of  its  sorrow  she  had  known, 
Save  what  had  come  from  her  own  buoyant  heart 
And  its  quick  throbbings,  as  they  went  and  came, 
Like  the  low  violet  trembling  in  the  breeze. 
Yes ;  there  she  lies  ;  her  spirit  all  ebbed  out, 
Ikit  resting  still  on  her  unclosed  eye, — 
All  stillness  and  all  softness  to  the  last, 
Like  a  long,  golden  wave  about  to  break 


line  609.]  BOOK  XL  305 

Upon  a  shore  of  gems.     0  bitter  grief! 

Like  sword  of  double  edge,  when  he  has  come, 

The  dark  destroyer,  with  his  poisoned  spear, 

Which  neither  skill  nor  armour  may  repel, 

To  smite  our  loveliest,  whose  arms  had  been 

Linked  lovingly  in  ours  from  infancy, 

To  cut  asunder  soul  from  soul,  to  tear 

In  pieces,  like  the  blossoms  of  the  spring, 

The  loves  and  hopes  and  joys  that  had  begun 

To  burst  in  beauty,  like  immortal  buds 

Dropt  down  from  heaven  upon  this  wondering  earth, 

Prophetic  of  a  summer  rich  in  fruit, 

And  calm  in  the  deep  beauty  of  its  skies. 

The  serpent's  fang  has  left  its  scar  upon 

The  rounded  dimple  of  her  cheek  ;  but  she 

Has  passed  beyond  the  poison  and  the  pain. 

*  Eternity  shall  never  shed  its  leaves  ; 
'Tis  only  summer  in  its  groves  of  green  : 
It  knoweth  not  the  chilliness  of  age. 
The  forehead  wrinkles  not ;  the  living  light 
Takes  on  no  shade  :  the  face  is  ever  fair, 
The  tresses  blanch  not,  and  the  eye  still  sparkles 
Without  or  change  or  end.     Oh,  well  with  us 
When  the  undying  gladness  has  begun  ! 
It  cannot  come  too  soon.     Each  day  appears 
An  age,  which  with  immeasurable  stretch 
Goes  out  beyond  the  range  of  human  hope. 
The  future  is  our  anchorage,  amid 
The  tides  and  tempest  here  ;  tho*  long  delayed, 
The  rest  is  coming  for  a  weary  race. 

'  With  her  all  life  was  doubled,  and  I  missed  not 


306  MY  OLD  LETTERS.  [LINE  640. 

Others  if  she  were  left;  but  her  departure 
Quenched  all  the  rest.     We  can  be  comforted 
In  the  sad  silence  of  the  loneliest  night 
If  but  one  voice  be  left  that  whispers  love. 
The  music-teeming  air,  bereft  of  all 
Its  myriad  cadences  save  one,  is  still 
Vocal  and  sweet ;  the  one  makes  up  for  all : 
But  when  that  one  is  gone  all  music  dies. 

1  I  looked  about  for  comfort ;  went  to  one 
Faithful  and  wise  and  good  ;  but  soon  returned 
To  speak  my  sorrow  to  myself  alone. 
He  had  not  suffered  :  how  then  could  he  speak 
To  sufferers  ?     In  presence  of  deep  grief 
Let  him  be  dumb,  or  let  his  words  be  few. 
He  had  no  son  or  daughter  laid  beneath 
The  swelling  turf;  he  could  not  understand 
How  to  walk  softly  thro'  the  churchyard  paths, 
Or  how  to  wipe  the  dew  from  gentle  graves. 
Ere  man  can  comfort  man,  he  first  must  suffer, — 
The  tearless  dry  no  tears  ;  the  whole  in  heart 
Bind  up  no  broken  spirits  ;  'tis  not  theirs 
To  mix  and  minister  the  balm  that  heals. 
It  is  by  sorrow  that  God  trains  His  own, 
And  moulds  them  for  the  highest  service  here, 
Like  His  who,  as  the  Man  of  sorrows,  knew 
To  soothe  the  sad,  to  speak  the  words  that  cheer. 
For  common  duty  between  man  and  man, 
All  who  have  hands  to  toil,  or  lips  to  speak, 
Are  in  their  measure  fit ;  but  for  high  work, — 
For  skill  in  dealing  with  the  finest  tissues 
Of  man's  most  inmost  being  when  laid  bare 


line  671.]  BOOK  XL  307 

With  griefs  that  dry  up  life  ;  with  bleeding  souls 
That  mutely  plead  for  sympathy  and  solace, 
They  only  can  be  trusted  who  have  been 
Trained  in  the  school  which  teaches  how  to  teach. 
For  weighty  are  the  words  of  sore- tried  men  : 
They  find,  we  know  not  how,  their  solemn  way 
Into  our  inner  essence  ;  like  the  voice 
Of  prophet,  speaking  language  not  of  earth. 

'  Could  He  not  teach  us  without  sorrow's  stroke, 
Or  mould  us  without  all  this  hourly  pressure, 
Or  purge  our  dross  with  less  of  furnace-heat, 
Or  cure  us  with  a  sweeter  draught  than  this  ? ' 

1  Nay,  but,  O  child  of  time,  whose  dwelling  is 
Between  the  two  eternities,  who, — who 
Art  thou,  replying  against  Him  with  whom 
Is  no  reply,  and  proudly  arguing 
Against  the  wisdom  of  the  Only  Wise  ? 
And  who  art  thou,  that  callest  hard  and  stern 
A  discipline  which  trains  thy  headlong  will, 
Imparts  to  it  a  heavenly  pliancy, 
And  tears  the  fibre  of  self-will  and  pride 
From  its  rough  texture,  till  it  sweetly  moves 
In  unreluctant  unison  with  His 
High  and  all-perfect  will,  who  thus  hath  tuned  it  ? 
Yes,  who  art  thou,  that  callest  long  and  sore 
The  process,  whose  design  is  to  strip  off 
Incrusted  evil,  and  to  perfect  thee  ; 
To  bring  out  all  thy  silent  depths  of  life 
And  thought  and  character,  which  but  for  this 
Had  lain  within  thee  cold  and  unrevealed  ? 
Does  the  harp  murmur  at  the  cunning  stroke 


308  MY  OLD  LETTERS.         [line  702. 

Of  the  musician  as  he  sweeps  its  chords  ? 
Does  the  cold  canvas  cry  aloud  against 
The  hand  of  genius,  flinging  on  its  face 
The  magic  of  a  thousand  lights  and  shades, 
The  colour  and  the  freshness  and  the  life 
Which  but  for  that  bold  touch  had  never  been  ? 
Does  the  rough  marble  blame  the  chisel's  sharpness, 
Or  taunt  the  sculptor  with  unskilfulness, 
Because  he  did  not  with  one  master-stroke 
Draw  out  the  beauty  from  the  shapeless  stone  ? 

1  How  much  we  should  have  lost,  if  these  slow  years 
Of  sore,  but  ever-working  discipline, 
Had  been  cut  down  into  a  single  day  ! 
How  little  of  ourselves  should  we  have  known, 
How  little  of  the  heart's  deep  mysteries, 
How  little  of  the  Chastener's  power  and  love 
And  patient  wisdom,  ever  fresh  and  new, 
Had  it  not  been  for  these  oppressive  hours 
When  all  the  light  of  earth  went  out  from  us. 
And  left  us  in  this  desert  desolate ! 
How  much  of  glory  should  our  God  have  lost, 
Had  no  such  seasons  drawn  out  His  full  heart, 
And  made  us  feel,  in  weariness  and  pain, 
The  pressure  of  the  everlasting  arm  ! 

*  How  else   should   we  have  learned  what  angels 
know  not, 
What  angels  cannot  teach,  what  God's  own  Son 
Learned  only  by  a  life  like  ours  on  earth 
Of  weariness  and  pain  and  poverty, — 
The  Father's  power  to  solace  and  to  cheer, 
The  filial  look  of  trust,  and  the  response 


line  732.]  BOOK  XL  309 

Of  lovingness  from  Him  to  whom  we  look, — 
The  tender  touch  of  a  paternal  hand, 
That  held  us  up  and  wiped  away  our  tears, 
That  in  the  day  of  suffering  smoothed  the  brow 
Which  agony  had  wrinkled  ;  above  all, 
Which  thus  crushed  out  of  us  each  earthly  taint, 
And  taught  us  what  we  ne'er  shall  know  in  heaven, 
The  evil  of  a  human  heart,  the  dark 
Malignancy  of  sin  that  brought  to  man 
And  to  man's  earth  such  ages  of  the  curse, 
The  fruit  of  one  sad  sin, — a  sin  which  seemed 
So  innocent,  that  none  but  God  could  know 
The  eternal  woes  to  issue  from  its  womb  ? ' 

Here  lies  the  letter  of  a  muser,  fond 
To  read  the  deeper  features  of  the  age, 
And  to  discover  what  lies  underneath 
The  unbeliefs  and  the  beliefs,  the  loves 
And  hatreds,  the  alliances  and  strifes 
Of  men  and  minds,  as  they  ferment  and  fume,— 
The  occult  affinities  of  things  that  differ, 
And  the  repulsions  of  what  seem  the  same  : 
The  self-will  reigning  everywhere,  and  yet 
The  cry  for  universal  brotherhood. 
'What  means  all  this  ?'  he  asks.     'The  sounds  I  hear 
Deep  thundering  over  Europe,  rolling  round 
The  labouring  globe,  they  mean  far  more  than  meets 
The  general  ear.     They  come  from  the  great  depths 
Of  pained  humanity,  with  fevered  heart, 
Tossing  its  limbs,  as  if  by  change  of  couch 
Or  change  of  posture  it  could  heal  itself. 


310  MY  OLD  LETTERS.         [line  762. 

The  swollen  veins,  the  bloodshot  eye  of  nations, 

The  secret  sobbing  of  ten  thousand  hearts, 

The  cry  for  water  to  allay  the  thirst, 

For  bread  to  satisfy  the  famished  spirit, 

For  rest  to  ease  the  impatient  weariness  ; — 

These  tell  of  maladies  beyond  the  reach 

Of  man's  profoundest  art  or  boldest  fraud. 

O  sick  beyond  the  power  of  wine  or  gold, 

Of  cunning  statecraft  or  despotic  steel, 

Of  politician,  priest,  philosopher, — 

Sick  to  the  inmost  soul,  and  He  alone, 

Who  heals  and  loves,  unsought  for  and  unknown  ! 

O  sick  to  death,  and  in  thy  dark  despair, 

Seeking  to  gods  who  cannot  heal  or  save, 

Sending  thy  midnight  messengers  afar 

To  Ammon  or  Olympia,  if  that  from 

The  dead,  some  voice  of  hope  at  length  may  come  ; 

Since  heaven  is  shut,  and  earth  contains  no  friend, 

And  only  hell  is  open  to  thy  call. 

1  Strange  groping  after  the  unseen,  the  world 
That  lies  without  us,  into  which  all  go, 
But  out  of  which  no  one  has  yet  come  back 
To  tell  us  what  he  saw  !     Strange  appetite 
Of  unbelief,  for  the  incredible  ! 
Blind  passion  for  the  mystical  and  dim, 
For  what  is  dark  and  magical,  for  error 
That  looks  like  truth,  and   truth  that   looks  like 

error, — 
The  old  priestly  lust  of  power  invisible 
Over  men's  souls  and  bodies, — to  be  gods 
Controlling  life  and  death  ;  by  touch  or  word, 


line  792.]  BOOK  XL  311 

To  pour  into  the  mortal,  deathlessness, 
Without  a  resurrection  or  a  grave. 

'So  faith  dies  down,  and  the  poor  shrivelled  soul 
Closes  against  the  love  of  love,  against 
Belief  in  the  divinely  true,  the  certainties 
Of  hope,  which,  like  the  stedfast  vault  above, 
Gird  us  around,  and  stay  our  tossing  hearts 
Amid  the  uncertainties  of  time  and  evil. 
Thus  the  hot  air  of  an  unhealthful  age, 
From  which  the  bracing  energy  is  gone, 
Poisons  the  sweet  blood  of  untainted  youth, 
Turning  it  all  to  fever  ;  making  dim 
The  dawning  lustre  of  a  star-bright  eye, 
Till  shadows  fall  where  noon  alone  should  be. 
Thus  the  last  snare  of  the  ensnarer,  set 
With  matchless  art,  secures  its  victim  man. 
Thus  the  world  struggles  on  the  desperate  hook 
Of  the  dark  fisher,  to  be  landed  soon, 
His  sure  and  easy  prey.     Men  heed  not  warnings, 
When  faith  in  the  invisible  has  perished. 
Prophet  and  conjuror  are  both  alike 
To  him  who  has  no  future  and  no  haven. 
The  mirror  is  not  for  the  blind,  and  to 
The  deaf  both  lute  and  trumpet  speak  in  vain. 
The  issue  is  at  hand  ;  the  ripened  evil 
Calls  itself  good,  and  glories  in  its  ripeness. 
All  things  unknit  themselves  ;  the  keystone  drops, 
And  the  old  arch  collapses  ;  into  shreds 
The  banner  rends  ;  the  strong  man  fights  in  vain, — 
The  shield  is  broken,  and  the  sword  has  dropt 
From  the  strong  warrior  of  a  thousand  fields. 


312  MY  OLD  LETTERS.         [line  823. 

'  Health  stealeth  slowly,  slowly  in,  as  if 
Afraid  to  enter ;  sickness  with  one  stride 
Passes  into  the  chamber  ;  with  one  stroke 
Smites  down  the  strongest :  the  deep  tide  of  life 
Ebbs  swiftly,  but  flows  in  with  tardy  wave. 

1  And  so  we  wait  in  breathless  awe  and  trust 
For  what  is  surely  coming.     Some  men  say 
Earth's  sun  shall  never  set,  while  others  point 
To  the  thin  shadows  lengthening  o'er  the  fields, 
And  with  forecasting  finger  bid  us  mark 
Yon  clouds  of  muffled  tempest,  moving  on, 
Like  an  armada  with  its  thunder-store 
Of  recompense  for  ages  of  old  wrong. 
Others  more  hopeful  or  less  wise,  or  both, 
Tell  us  the  worst  is  past ;  for  see 
The  storm  has  spent  itself,  and  the  last  bolt 
Has  struck  the  peak  ;  the  clouds  are  limbering  up  ; 
The  dread  artillery  is  moving  off" 
The  field  ;  and  the  rough  air  will  soon  be  calm.' 

1  And  where  wert  Thou,  O  better  than  the  best 
Of  all  on  earth,  my  everlasting  friend  ? 
O  tardum  gaudium  mcum,  as  to  Thee 
The  old  father  said,  confessing  days  of  sin, 
(So  read  I  in  this  scroll  that  open  lies, 
The  record  of  a  life  once  all  but  wasted, 
Yet  plucked  at  last  from  vanity,  and  nailed 
In  happy  consecration  to  the  cross). 
Not  always  felt  nor  loved,  but  ever  near  ; 
Not  always  sought,  but  ever  found  when  sought ; 
Created  beauty  oft  preferred  to  Thine, 


line  853.]  BOOK  XL  313 

And  creature-love  usurping  this  vain  heart 

Which  owed  Thee  all  its  homage  :  this  poor  world 

Admired  and  worshipped,  Thou  alone  forgot, 

And  Thy  fair  world  to  come,  with  all  its  fulness, 

Shut  out  from  eye  and  heart.     O  once  unloved 

And  once  unknown,  now  loved  and  known  the  best, 

Where  was  Thy  voice  amid  the  voices  then  ? 

And  where  wras  Thy  companionship  amid 

The  brotherhoods  and  fellowships  of  earth  ? 

For  Thou  wert  ever  speaking,  yet  I  heard  not, 

And  ever  following,  yet  I  fled  from  Thee, 

And  ever  loving,  yet  I  loved  Thee  not. 

Strewed  by  ten  thousands  o'er  my  daily  path, 

Like  flowers  and  gems  and  ingots  of  fair  gold, 

Thy  gracious  thoughts  and  purposes  I  find, 

As  I  look  back  along  the  narrow  vista 

Of  this  one  life,  so  great  in  Thy  esteem, 

And  yet  so  madly  flung  away  by  us, 

As  if  no  pregnant  future  hung  upon  it. 

Like  the  bright  dew  they  sparkled  everywhere  : 

I  find  them  in  each  step  I  took,  in  each 

Mutation  of  my  life  ;  my  being's  orbit 

Has  swept  all  these  into  its  ample  curve. 

This  poor  and  foolish  history  of  mine 

Teems  with  Thy  tender  love,  in  every  part 

Ennobled  and  enriched  and  dignified 

By  its  connection  with  Thyself,  and  with 

Thy  unbeginning  past,  Thy  endless  future. 

1  The  day  was  Thine,  and  yet  I  saw  Thee  not 
In  its  glad  ministries  of  health  and  light. 
The  night  was  Thine,  and  yet  I  felt  Thee  not 


314  MY  OLD  LETTERS.         [line  884. 

In  the  cool  darkness,  as  Thy  careful  hand, 

Like  a  fond  mother's  in  her  watchfulness, 

Thy  star-embroidered  curtain  round  me  drew  ; 

The  hills  were  Thine,  and  yet  I  found  Thee  not 

On  their  soft  slopes  or  in  their  shadowy  glens, 

Or  in  the  sculptured  cliffs  that  tell  of  art 

Beyond  all  art,  of  power  beyond  all  power. 

The  streams  were  Thine,  yet,  when  I  drank  of  them, 

I  did  not  drink  of  Thee,  O  living  fount, 

Nor  quench  my  thirst  at  the  eternal  well  ; 

Nor  let  the  influx  of  Thy  mighty  law 

Fill  the  void  channels  of  this  dried-up  heart. 

The  sea  was  Thine, — the  unmeasurable  main, 

Free  as  the  wind,  yet  fettered  as  the  rock, 

Swung  to  and  fro  by  the  great  orbs  above, 

And  bathing  in  their  daily,  nightly  glow, 

Yet  in  its  vastness  I  discerned  Thee  not, 

Nor  in  its  majesty  acknowledged  Thine. 

The  flowers  were  Thine, — all  thro'  the  well-pleased  air 

From  their  bright  censers  breathing  incense  round, 

And  brightening  earth's  low  fields  with  hues  of  heaven  ; 

I  read  no  love  in  these,  nor  saw  in  Thee 

The  birthplace  of  creation's  loveliness. 

In  exultation  o'er  the  past  I  cried, 

"  The  world  is  changed,  and  better  days  have  dawned  ; 

The  golden  age  has  come  back  all  in  bloom, 

And  the  hard  iron  time  is  at  an  end  : 

And  gold  is  taken  at  its  proper  price. 

Men  may  securely  mock  Cassandra's  tale, 

And  smile  to  silence  her  prophetic  woes. 

Now  life  is  at  its  noon,  an  endless  noon  ; 


LINE  915]  BOOK  XL  315 

The  shadow  has  gone  by,  the  substance  comes  ; 
Death  has  now  done  its  worst,  its  shafts  are  spent  ; 
Evil  is  disappearing  like  a  plague 
Which  has  fulfilled  its  mission  ;  the  sweet  air 
Distilleth  only  health  and  length  of  days." 

'And  where  wert  Thou,  O  gracious  Son  of  God, 
Son  of  the  Blessed,  ever-pitiful  ? 
And  what  wert  Thou  to  me,  in  days  like  these, 
When  youth  and  childhood  followed  other  gods 
And  other  Christs,  hewing  out  for  themselves 
The  cisterns  that  broke  as  soon  as  hewn  ? 
To  me  Thy  cross  was  nought  but  a  rough  plank 
Cut  by  a  Roman  axe  from  Jewish  tree, 
To  which,  or  justly  or  unjustly,  some 
Poor  Hebrew  criminal  was  nailed  in  scorn. 
I  saw  it,  but  I  heeded  not  ;  the  world 
Like  a  rich  veil  concealed  the  Crucified, 
And  hid  the  wondrous  cross  of  Golgotha. 
I  passed  it  and  repassed  it ;  but  it  won 
From  me  no  look  of  homage  or  of  faith. 
Absorbed  in  creaturehood,  the  things  beyond, 
What  the  eye  saw  or  the  hand  fondly  clasped, 
To  me  were  shadows  or  disturbing  dreams : 
And  youth's  light  barque,  with  May-day  pennon  gay, 
Swept  over  a  fair  ocean,  all  whose  shores 
Were  emeralds.     Some  spell  had,  softly  bound  me  ; 
I  would  not  have  it  broken  ;  yet  it  broke  : — 
It  broke  at  last,  the  golden  veil  was  gone 
That  hid  the  cross  ;  the  world  had  disappeared, 
And  face  to  face,  I  found  myself  alone 
With  Him  whom  I  had  scorned  and  crucified. 


316  MY  OLD  LETTERS.         [line  946. 

Weary  I  found  myself,  and  here  was  rest ; — 

Eternal  blessing  for  the  child  of  time  : 

Poor,  and  the  riches  of  the  universe 

Were  gathered  here  :  I  needed  but  to  take. 

Strange  years  of  vanity  had  taught  my  soul 

That  this  world  has  no  wells  ;  if  e'er  it  had, 

They  have  long  since  run  dry.     But  here  there  welled 

The  life-fount  whose  deep  gushings  are  for  ever. 

A  shadowy  faith  had  made  all  truth  untrue, 

And  all  reality  to  me  unreal. 

I  had  believed  in  dreams,  and  called  them  bliss  ; 

I  had  believed  in  mists  and  clouds  and  air, 

Calling  them  fields  and  flowers  and  palaces. 

Now  all  went  up  in  vapour  :  I  was  left 

Without  a  refuge  ;  with  a  heart  as  blank 

As  the  wide  basin  of  a  dried-up  sea, 

Or  the  dark  sweep  of  some  far  upland  heath, 

Whose  very  weeds  the  unsparing  hurricane 

Has  torn  up  by  the  roots,  or  trodden  down. 

'  O  summer-love,  that  springs  and  blooms  and  dies, 
Within  one  soft,  short  noon,  leaving  us  bare, 
Like  a  scorched  Eden,  or  a  blasted  palm, 
Is  there  no  summer  when  your  sun  has  set, 
No  second  summer  sweeter  than  the  first  ? 
Has  ocean  but  one  pearl,  or  heaven  one  star  ? 

'  Yes,  well  for  me  that  the  old  cross  still  stood ! 
The  rush  of  ages  has  not  shaken  it ; 
The  wars  of  earth  have  left  it  all  unharmed  ; 
The  fall  of  kingdoms  has  not  touched  its  greatness  ; 
The  slow  decay  of  cities  and  of  temples 
Has  not  corroded  its  perennial  green  ; 


line  977-]  BOOK  XL  317 

The  shock  of  storms  and  earthquakes,  sweeping  o'er 

A  tottering  earth,  has  left  it  where  it  stood, 

Untrembling  and  unbroken  ;  the  one  thing 

In  all  this  crumbling  globe  that  cannot  fall. 

To  some  it  seems  the  relic  of  an  age 

Which,  with  its  good  or  evil,  is  all  gone. 

To  some  it  seems  in  sombre  gloom  to  stand 

Beclad  in  sackcloth  ;  some  would  drape  it  o'er 

With  ornament,  to  hide  its  ruggedness  ; 

And  some  would  hew  it  down  with  hellish  axe ; — 

To  me  it  shone  out  like  a  central  sun, 

Diffusing  over  earth  resistless  health, 

With  life  and  freedom  and  supernal  peace. 

There  He  who  tasted  death  dispenseth  life  ; 

He  who  Himself  was  weary  giveth  rest  ; 

He  over  whom  the  sun,  for  three  sad  hours, 

Was  darkened,  giveth  light, — Himself  the  Sun  ! 

1  In  a  dark  world  how  bright  that  glory  beams, 
How  excellent  its  splendour  and  its  power  ! 
That  naked  cross,  untouched  by  human  art, 
Uncarved,  unpolished  by  the  hand  of  man, 
Just  as  it  stood  on  Golgotha,  outside 
The  wall  of  Salem  ;  when  the  eternal  Son 
As  the  One  Victim,  going  forth  to  die, 
Ascended  it  and  took  with  Him  our  guilt : 
That  Roman  cross,  set  up  on  Hebrew  soil, 
Where  Jew  and  Gentile  meet,  where  earth  and  heaven 
Have  come  together,  like  converging  orbs, 
Henceforth  to  be  but  one  ;  when  every  race 
And  every  nation  of  the  populous  globe 
Shall  gather  to  this  glorious  centre,  round 


318  MY  OLD  LETTERS.       [line  icoS. 

The  Christ  that  has  been,  is,  and  is  to  be  : — 

One  heaven,  one  earth,  one  kingdom,  and  one  fold, 

The  centre  of  God's  boundless  universe, 

Home  of  the  royal  priesthood,  fountainhead 

Of  ministry  for  the  eternal  ages,  seat 

Of  holy  service  for  the  hosts  of  God. 

1  The  oneness  lingers  ;  yet  from  far  we  hear 
Strains  that  foretell  its  advent,  sweet  and  slow  : 
Let  us  be  still  and  listen;  earthly  motion 
Mars  the  descending  melody  ;  our  ears 
Are  blunted  with  the  jarring  sounds  of  time. 
Shut  out  the  babbling  voices  of  the  world, 
And  let  the  one  great  voice  be  heard  ;  as  if 
Thou  and  that  voice  were  all  the  universe. 
Be  still,  be  still ;  let  not  thy  throbbing  pulse 
Deafen  thine  ear :  ask  not  for  sign,  nor  say, 
Belief  comes  only  with  the  touch  or  sight. 
All  fragrance  is  invisible  ;  the  clear  air 
Receives  the  rose-breath,  but  betrays  it  not 
To  keenest  eye  or  ear ;  and  all  unseen 
The  happy  perfume  floats  on  every  side, 
But  by  its  sweetness  known.     The  ministry 
Of  holy  feet,  as  they  move  daily  thro' 
The  world's  great  hospital,  is  without  noise. 
'Tis  not  the  stars  alone  that  speak  to  us 
In  their  articulate  and  beamy  silence : 
The  livingness  of  nature  all  around 
Breathes  up  the  gentlest  of  all  gentle  voices, 
Had  we  but  cars  to  hear  the  melody. 

''Tis  not  the  din  of  hammers  that  proclaims 
The  rising  temple.     It  is  not  in  sound 


line  1039.]  BOOK  XL  319 

That  strength   is   stored.     The   tempest  does   the 

wrecking, 
It  is  the  calm  that  does  the  building  up. 
That  which  the  angels  know  so  well,  and  that 
Which  man  needs  yet  to  learn  so  greatly,  is 
The  ministry  of  silence,  the  strange  offices 
Of  power  and  love  performed  by  the  unheard. 

1  The  true  man  sounds  no  trumpet,  and  his  work, 
Unheralded,  is  done  ere  men  can  see 
Who  did  it,  or  put  forth  the  bustling  hand 
To  help  what  needs  no  help  ;  itself  alone, 
Like  angel-breath,  resistless  yet  unfelt, — 
Or  felt  but  as  the  needle  feels  the  pole, 
Or  as  the  ocean  feels  the  far-off  moon.' 


BOOK    XII. 


4 1  CROSSED  the  brook  to-day,  as  musical 
And  frolicsome  as  in  bright  days  long  gone  ; 
With  silvery  leap  skipping  from  rock  to  rock, 
Like  a  fair  child  on  whose  white  silken  dress 
Plays  the  quick  sunbeam.     Thro'  the  mead  I  went 
Starred  with  wild  daisies,  all  in  snowy  bloom. 
Above  me  the  ribbed  granite  precipice, 
Festooned  with  overhanging  ivy-wreaths ' — 
(So  writes  the  buoyant  pen  of  one  who  went 
From  day  to  day,  o'er  hill  and  moor  and  stream, 
To  feed  his  portion  of  the  flock  of  heaven). — 
'  Spread  o'er  the  knolls,  or  clustered  in  the  glens, 
The  cottage  chimneys  scattered  their  grey  smoke 
Upon  the  sleepy  breeze.     The  road  was  rough, 
And  the  big  boulder  blocked  my  onward  path 
Upon  the  ridge  that  overhangs  the  wave. 
I  climbed  it,  and  sat  down  to  gaze  around. 
The  mountains  rose  in  majesty  above  me  ; 
The  sea  broke  far  beneath  me,  just  so  far 
As  I  could  hear  its  dash  upon  the  rocks. 
A  little  child  was  playing  with  the  ripples  ; 
The  idiot  boy  walked  idly  to  and  fro, 
Watching  the  far-off  sail  with  vacant  eye, 

820 


line  24.]  BOOK  XII  321 

His  hands  behind  him,  holding  each  the  other ; 
The  dim  stripes  went  and  came  upon  the  wave, 
The  clouds  watched  leisurely  their  own  strange  shadows, 
And  sometimes  showed  and  sometimes  hid  the  sun  : 
The  sea-bird  screamed  and  flashed  along  the  ooze, 
Or  plunged  into  the  brine  to  snatch  his  prey. 
The  breath  of  day  was  sweet,  and  its  warm  pulse 
Quickened  all  nature  with  a  double  glow. 

1 1  sat  and  gazed  ; — a  flock  of  sheep  went  by, 
Entrusted  to  a  cripple's  care  ;  they  turned 
Aside  and  wandered  everywhere  :  with  much 
Labour  and  weariness,  he  followed  them 
Along  their  devious  ways,  mile  after  mile, 
Till  one  by  one  he  gathered  them,  and  brought 
The  undivided  flock  to  the  green  fields, 
That  lay  before  them  in  the  pleasant  glen 
Just  out  of  sight,  where  shelter,  shade,  and  stream 
Awaited  them.     Even  such  the  way,  I  said, 
In  which  the  better  Shepherd  brings  His  flock, 
Weary  and  straggling,  o'er  a  hundred  wastes, 
Thro'  perilous  uplands  to  the  fields  of  life. 
Often  I've  wondered  how,  with  such  fierce  foes, 
Such  storms  and  snares  and  meagre  pasturage, 
And  with  such  poor  and  feeble  shepherding, 
The  little  flock  of  earth  should  ever  reach 
The  eternal  fold.     And  yet  they  all  are  there, 
Or  shall  be  soon,  not  one  left  wandering  here, 
Prey  to  the  prowling  wolf,  or  'mid  the  rocks 
Famished  and  lorn  and  lost ;  for  above  all, 
Still  looking  down  upon  His  helpless  ones 
And  loving  them  with  undecaying  love, 


322  MY  OLD  LETTERS.  [line  55. 

Sits  the  Good  Shepherd,  He  who  gave  His  life 
For  the  dear  flock,  and  who  forsakes  them  not. 

1  Good  Shepherd  !  in  these  days  of  subtle  ill, 
When  all  the  elements  of  earth  and  sky 
Are  on  the  side  of  doubt ;  when  unbelief 
Assumes  the  garb  of  faith,  speaks  with  its  voice, 
And  steals  its  holiest  words  ;  when  the  dark  foe, 
Unwearied  seeks  his  victims  ;  day  and  night, 
Watch  Thy  lone  flock ;  and  tho'  the  shepherds  here 
Know  little  of  the  Shepherd's  love  and  skill, 
Take  Thou  Thyself  the  rod  and  crook  and  staff; 
Do  Thou  the  work  which  only  Thou  canst  do  ! 
Watch  Thou  the  fold,  for  every  beast  of  prey 
That  loves  the  night,  howls  round  its  broken  wall. 
Fetch  home  the  wanderer  ;  bid  the  loiterer  haste, 
Lest  night  come  down  ere  shelter  has  been  found. 
Bind  up  the  broken,  bid  the  weary  rest  ; 
Soothe  sorrow  with  Thy  words  of  sweetest  grace  ; 
Be  eyes  to  the  benighted  and  the  blind ; 
Lay  Thy  strong  hand  on  frowardness,  and  let 
The  wilful  learn  submission  to  Thy  will. 
Grasp  firm,  with  hand  that  cannot  let  them  go, 
The  timid  lambs  that  look  all  round  for  help  : 
Unspotted  from  the  world,  O  Shepherd,  keep  them  ; 
Let  not  their  feet  be  taken  in  its  snares. 
The  sky  is  sullen,  and  its  air  is  cold  ; 
The  day  has  no  kind  promise  in  its  air  ; 
The  wind  goes  by  in  anger,  threatening  soon 
To  come  again  and  do  its  work  of  waste : 
The  lightning  lurketh  in  yon  ragged  cloud, 
Ready  to  strike.     The  rivers  are  dried  up, 


line  36.]  BOOK  XII.  323 

The  pastures  poor  and  scanty,  interspersed 
With  poison-weeds,  so  like  the  pleasant  grass, 
That,  in  their  hunger,  the  unwary  sheep, 
Unwatched,  unwarned  by  heedless  shepherds  here, 
Feed  on  the  beauteous  poison-leaf,  and  die. 
O  flock,  O  fold,  O  Shepherd  good  and  true, 
Must  it  be  ever  thus  ?     Hast  Thou,  O  Christ, 
Forgot  Thine  own,  or  has  Thy  love  been  foiled  ? 
Thy  sheep  are  bleating,  and  they  plead  with  Thee. 
Hast  Thou  no  answer  in  this  day  of  cold, 
Bleak  half-belief  or  worse,  wThen  faith  pines  o'er 
The  dried-up  pastures  which  once  promised  fair  ? 
And  must  Thy  flock  appeal  to  Thee  in  vain  ? 
Is  Thine  hand  shortened  that  it  cannot  save  ? 
Hast  Thou  begun  to  break  the  bruised  reed  ? 
Hast  Thou  resolved  to  quench  the  smoking  flax  ? 
'  When  God  is  angry  with  His  flock,  they  say, 
He  sends  them  a  blind  shepherd  in  His  wrath. 
Be  no  such  blindness  mine  !     No  indolence, 
Idling  away  the  living  hours  of  morn, 
And  dreaming  all  day  long  of  noble  wrork, 
Yet  leaving  all  that  noble  work  undone. 
No  love  of  self  be  mine,  as  if  for  self 
This  life  were  given  ;  no  shrinking  from  the  toil, 
The  heat,  the  frost,  the  tempest  or  the  night, 
If  one  poor  sheep  be  out  upon  the  moor. 

1  One  such  lorn  waif  I  still  remember  well, 
Tho'  he  has  passed  the  border  long  ago, 
And  gone  into  the  upper  fold,  where  storms 
Vex  not,  nor  hot  winds  dry  the  pasture  up. 


324  MY  OLD  LETTERS.         [line  ii6. 

He  lived  in  yonder  heath-thatched  hut,  o'er  which 

That  graceful  mountain-ash  is  casting  now 

Its  flitting  shadow,  as  the  quick  breeze  shakes  it. 

'Tis  a  poor  dwelling  for  humanity : 

The  rain  drips  thro'  the  roof,  the  gable-chinks 

Let  in  the  wintry  chills,  the  floor  is  clay : 

The  lattice  small  and  dim,  tho'  round  it  trails 

The  sweetest  rose  that  ever  blushed  in  June. 

In  front  the  little  patch  of  garden  breathes 

Fragrance  and  health,  from  many  a  beaming  flower 

That  lifts  its  beauty  to  the  admiring  sun, 

As  daily  he  smiles  down  upon  this  waste. 

*  There  he  was  born  ;  and  there  it  was  he  heard 
In  childhood  the  immortal  words  of  peace, 

The  news  of  life,  thro'  the  almighty  death 
Of  Him  who  went  up  to  the  cross  for  us, 
That  the  great  darkness  might  be  overcome, 
And  sunshine,  brighter  than  the  day's,  descend 
To  breathe  eternal  brightness  over  earth. 
The  Just  One  bound,  the  unjust  goeth  forth  ; 
The  captive's  chain,  transferred  to  other  limbs, 
No  more  forbids  the  victim  to  be  free ! — 

*  But  from  his  home  he  went ;  and  his  home-faith 
Passed  out  of  him  ;  and  one  by  one  each  gem 

Of  cherished  truth  was  flung  upon  the  sand. 
He  would  be  greatly  wise  ;  he  would  create 
His  own  high  wisdom,  and  to  none  would  he 
Be  debtor,  least  of  all  to  those  who  lived 
In  other  days,  and  thought  the  olden  thought 
Save  to  himself,  he  would  owe  nought  to  an)-. 
He  would  believe  in  matter,  not  in  spirit ; 


line  147.]  BOOK  XII  325 

In  darkness,  not  in  light ;  in  unbelief, 
And  not  in  faith  ;  in  guesses,  not  in  truth  ; 
In  newness,  not  in  oldness  ;  and  his  creed 
Should  wholly  be  his  own  and  not  another's. 
Whether  this  green  earth  had  an  owner,  he 
Would  find  out  for  himself;  whether  above 
These  skies  there  was  a  region,  goodlier, 
And  more  unchanging,  he  would  for  himself 
Make  sure  ; — philosophy  would  tell  him  all, 
Or  tell  him  there  was  nothing  to  be  told. 

1  But  darkness  could  not  bring  him  rest,  and  doubt 
Had  poison  in  it  to  his  soul  ;  he  walked 
In  sadness  to  and  fro ;  his  troubled  heart 
Took  on  the  darkness  it  had  chosen,  till 
His  very  being  was  a  thing  of  doubt, 
And  all  within  was  storm  ;  before  his  eyes 
Thin  spectres  flitted  ;  he  had  lost  the  power 
Of  crediting  the  words  of  God  or  man.  1 

1  Evil  became  his  good  :  he  drank  each  cup 
Presented  to  his  lips,  and  what  might  be 
Therein  of  sweetness  or  of  bitterness 
He  asked  not ;  for  he  said  that  joy 
Was  all  a  fable  ;  he  would  eat  and  drink, 
Depart  and  be  forgotten  in  the  earth, 
Like  a  tired  leaf  that  drops  into  the  stream, 
And  on  it  takes  its  way  to  the  wide  sea, 
In  its  cold  depths  to  find  a  sepulchre. 

1  Self-hindered  in  the  race  of  life,  he  blamed 
All  but  himself ;  and  most  of  all  the  Being 
Whose  dreaded  name  his  lips  refused  to  name. 
He  threw  himself  upon  a  midnight  tomb, 


326  MY  OLD  LETTERS.         [line  17S. 

And  between  sod  and  star  protested  loud 
Against  his  own  creation.     He  was  wronged  ; 
But  how  to  right  the  wrong  he  could  not  find, 
Or  to  avenge  himself  against  his  foe. 
The  marble  flung  itself  against  the  sculptor, 
And  called  for  justice.     Who  had  dared 
Without  his  will  to  assign  him  such  a  lot  ? 

'  Poor  as  he  was,  he  had  both  read  and  thought ; 
Yet  all  in  vain  :  life  was  a  destiny 
He  must  fulfil,  he  said  ;  he  could  not  shun  it, 
Even  tho'  he  would  ;  and  he  must  bravely  breast 
The  billows  to  the  last,  until  he  sank, 
And  in  that  sinking  take  revenge  upon 
A  fate  with  which  it  was  in  vain  to  struggle. 

1 1  watched  his  wanderings,  pitied  him,  and  strove 
To  win  him  to  the  love  that  he  had  lost, 
And  to  the  faith  that  he  had  cast  away. 
O'er  many  a  waste  I  followed  the  stray  sheep, 
But  it  fled  faster  from  me  ;  I  pursued 
Thro'  darkness  and  thro'  light,  in  cold  and  heat ; 
In  weariness  and  sorrow  I  went  on. 
But  all  in  vain  ;  the  wanderer  fled  apace, 
The  shepherd  from  his  weary  search  returned, 
Baffled  in  love,  but  not  ashamed  of  loving. 

1  Sweet  childhood,  like  a  trampled  garden,  lay 
Behind  him  and  around  him,  meant  to  be 
Fragrant  and  beautiful,  but  marred  throughout ; 
Its  flowers  all  dead  or  broken.     Often  back 
Upon  it  he  would  cast  a  troubled  eye, 
When  his  dark  follies  bore  him  down  to  earth  ; — 
But  still  he  chased  the  wind  and  sowed  the  sand. 


line  209.]  BOOK  XII  327 

*  Sin  smote  him  to  the  dust  at  last :  his  god 
Could  not  deliver  in  the  day  of  ill. 
And  he  lay  down  to  die,  returning  home 
After  long  erring  years  ;  without  a  hope. 
The  light  seemed  blotted  from  his  firmament ; 
Nor  sun  nor  stars  for  many  days  appeared. 
He  wished  to  hide  himself  from  God  and  man. 

'  But  hope  was  nearer  than  he  thought ;  it  came 
In  ways  he  little  looked  for.     The  old  truth, 
Buried  so  long  and  trodden  under  foot, 
Rose  up  to  re-assert  its  dormant  power 
Within  him,  as  he  lay  thus,  face  to  face 
With  the  near  death  he  had  so  long  defied. 
The  well-known  walls  seemed  written  o'er  with  it : 
The  cottage-hearth  seemed  to  retain  its  warmth  ; 
His  father's  grave,  hard  by  the  churchyard  gate, 
Beneath  the  elm,  shone  strangely  bright  with  it : 
The  old  hills  echoed  it,  and  to  the  rocks 
It  seemed  to  cleave  still  closer  than  the  moss 
That  clothed  them  with  a  softness  not  their  own. 
The  happy  stream  seemed  to  derive  its  mirth 
From  the  glad  words  that  had  so  often  mixed 
With  its  own  music ;  the  benignant  breeze 
Bore  back  the  hymns  of  childhood  to  his  heart. 
He  was  like  one  from  whom  all  later  life 
Had  passed  away,  as  by  some  sudden  spell, 
And  into  whom  his  former,  truer  being 
Had  come  in  haste,  as  with  transfiguring  power. 
It  was  as  if  some  angel  in  his  arms 
Had  lifted  him  in  love,  and  borne  him  back 
O'er  twenty  wasted  years,  to  set  him  down 


32S  MY  OLD  LETTERS.         [line  240. 

Once  more  beneath  the  shadow  of  the> cross, 
To  have  his  fever  cooled,  his  wounds  bound  up, 
His  spirit's  strength  restored  as  by  a  touch 
From  heaven,  and  all  his  worn-out  being  healed. 

1  Yet  not  without  a  struggle  ;  for  the  darkness 
Fought  with  the  light,  and  the  deep  unbelief 
Repelled  the  faith. — But  the  true  light  was  strong, 
And  overcame  :  the  night  gave  place  to  day. 
He  seemed  to  stand  beside  the  altar  ;  there 
The  smoke  and  incense  rose,  and  filled  the  air, 
Covering  the  guilty  one  as  with  a  shield. 
The  blood  took  hold  of  him  ;  and  its  strange  touch 
Dissolved  his  guilt,  as  if  it  had  not  been. 
Another's  life  was  lying  there  instead 
Of  his ;  and  all  his  doom  he  saw  reversed. 
Another's  strength  had  fought  the  fight  for  him, 
Another's  love  had  won  the  victory, 
Another  had  gone  in  for  him  to  God, 
And  had  prevailed.     The  righteous  peace  was  sealed. 

■  It  was  as  if  in  him,  the  furthest  gone 
Of  earth's  poor  waifs,  forgiving  love  had  been 
Strained  to  the  uttermost ;  as  if  for  him 
The  mighty  sacrifice  of  Golgotha, 
Whose  fulness  is  beyond  all  thought,  had  been 
Taxed  to  its  highest  value  :  seldom  had 
Wounds  such  as  his  been  healed,  and  stains  so  foul 
Been  blanched  to  purity  ;  and  seldom  had 
Anguish  like  his  passed  into  such  sweet  peace, 
The  prelude  of  the  peace  to  which  he  went. — 
Was  ever  tempest  ended  in  such  calm  ? 

*  Good  Shepherd,  Thou  hast  won  Thine  own  at  last ! 


line  271.]  BOOK  XII  329 

The  sheep  is  on  Thy  shoulders  now  ;  Thy  joy 
Is  greater  than  his  own  :  Thou  hast  not  sought 
The  lost  in  vain  ;  Thy  search  is  ended  now  ; 
The  song  begins  ; — hark,  how  it  swells  afar, — 
Lo,  this  my  son  was  dead  and  is  alive, 
Was  lost,  is  found  ;  'tis  meet  we  should  be  glad  ! 

'  Good  Shepherd,  we  would  know  Thy  tender  love, 
The  love  that  knows  no  failure  and  no  bounds, 
And  all  that  love  has  undergone  for  us,— 
The  mountains  Thou  hast  crossed  in  search  of  us, 
The  floods  which  Thou  hast  breasted,  the  wild  tracts 
Of  desert  and  of  darkness  Thou  hast  traversed, 
The  toil  Thou  barest,  all  the  buffetings 
Of  tempest,  all  the  bitterness  of  death 
Thou  hast  encountered,  to  deliver  us ! 
Thou  followedst  us,  who  bidst  us  follow  Thee : 
Thou  restedst  not  till  Thou  hadst  found  for  us 
A  rest  which  weariness  shall  ne'er  invade ; 
Thou  canst  not  rest  till  all  Thine  own  are  gathered  ; 
That  fold  of  Thine  would  not  be  what  it  is, 
The  home  of  gladness  and  of  plenty,  were 
One,  even  the  least  of  all  Thine  own,  left  out. 
Blest  they  who  find  Thee,  blest  whom  Thou  hast  found  ; 
Within  Thy  fold  of  peace  they  dwell  secure. 
Around  its  walls  the  wolf  may  rage  in  vain  , 
O'er  it  the  storm  may  gather :  they  are  safe. 

'  I  sought  him  out  the  night  before  he  died. 
The  snow  was  drifting,  and  the  impetuous  gale 
Shook  the  spare  walls.     Its  din  disturbed  him  not ; 
The  inner  calm  repelled  the  outer  tempest, 
And  the  low  voice,  soft  stealing  from  above, 


;o  MY  OLD  LETTERS.         [line  302. 

Filled  every  chamber  of  his  happy  being  : 
There  was  no  room  for  other  voices  now. 
"  Into  the  valley  I  go  down  with  Thee, 

0  Son  of  God,"  he  said  ;  u  and  where  Thou  once 
Didst  rest  Thee  will  I  rest ;  Thy  tomb  be  mine, 
And  mine  Thy  resurrection  :  Thou  in  me, 

And  I  in  Thee,  in  death  as  well  as  life. 
Each  has  his  resting-place,  and  I  have  mine, 
A  heavenly  pillow  for  an  earthly  bed. 

1  know  Thou  livest  ;  nay,  Thou  canst  not  die. 
Because  Thou  livest,  I  shall  also  live, 

And  Thou  wilt  show  to  me  the  path  of  life, 
For  all  Thy  immortality  is  mine." 

'  He  seemed  to  see  within  the  open  gate, 
And  his  eye  kindled  with  a  brightness  which 
Was  not  of  earth,  as  if  the  glow  of  sunrise 
Upon  the  top  of  some  immortal  hill 
Had  caught  his  vision  ;  or  it  might  have  been 
The  glory  of  the  city,  where  they  need 
No  sun  or  moon  to  lighten  them,  but  where 
Jehovah  is  the  everlasting  light, 
And  the  long  day  of  mourning  at  an  end. 

1  He  passed  away  as  some  belated  star, 
Last  of  his  fellows,  in  the  summer  dawn, 
Dissolves  into  the  gold  of  rising  day : 
The  bright  still  bright,  altho'  invisible 
To  our  short-visioned  eye  ;  the  beautiful 
Lost  in  superior  beauty,  yet  still  fair 
To  other  eyes  beyond  that  rounded  roof. 

1  So  have  I  seen,  after  some  sweeping  storm, 
When  the  gale  sunk,  the  long  wave  wearily 


line  333.J  BOOK  XII.  33i 

Fling  itself  down  upon  the  welcome  sand, 
Glad  of  a  resting-place  however  cold. 

'  I  left,  retracing  thro'  the  deep-strewn  snow 
My  steps  in  darkness.     I  had  found  the  lost, 
And  what  to  me  was  winter's  ice  or  wind  ? 
I  had  seen  thro'  the  half-unfolded  gate, 
And  watched  the  worn-out  wanderer  passing  in, 
The  earth-robes  of  this  lean  mortality- 
Exchanged  for  raiment  richer  than  the  noon. 
That  was  enough.     All  summer  gathered  round  me  ; 
The  shrill  pipe  of  the  winter-blast  was  song, 
And  the  bare  boughs  were  blossoming.     The  snow 
Transformed  itself  into  a  lily-plain, 
And  sudden  fragrance  filled  the  air  with  balm. 
The  stars  shone  out  and  formed  the  avenue 
Thro'  which  the  wanderer  had  just  gone  home, — 
A  home  from  which  he  should  go  out  no  more, 
In  that  untainted  clime,  whose  loveliness, 
Divinely  luminous,  divinely  pure, 
Knows  but  the  sunshine  of  a  heavenly  morn. 

1  I've  known  a  land  ;  and  I  have  called  it  mine  ; 
Than  which  there  seems  none  fairer  ;  none  so  fair. 
There  may  be  smoother  skies  and  safer  seas  ; 
Winters  less  rude  and  springs  of  softer  breath  ; 
There  may  be  gayer  gardens,  ruddier  fruits  ; 
But  not  to  these  does  my  soul  warmly  turn. 
The  land  I've  known  has  grandeur  grander  still ; 
In  rugged  majesty  of  hill  and  vale 
It  lifts  its  head  above  its  richer  peers. 
The  tale  it  telleth  of  the  wise  and  good, 
The  great  in  war,  in  council,  and  in  love, 


332  MY  OLD  LETTERS.         [line  364. 

Is  such  as  this  old  earth  has  seldom  told. 

I  know  the  uplands  where  the  torrents  rush, 

Beloved  nurslings  of  the  mountain-slope, 

Chasing  with  silver  feet  each  other  down 

Into  the  deep  pool  of  the  hazel  glen. 

I  know  the  forests  whose  gaunt  branches  weave, 

Between  us  and  the  clouds,  their  roof  of  gloom  ; 

Where,  wandering  like  lost  children  in  the  wood, 

The  night-winds  sigh  for  day.     I've  climbed  the  steeps 

On  which  the  boulder  rests,  caught  in  its  plunge 

From  the  grey  precipice,  around  whose  waist 

The  heather  twines  its  old  imperial  purple, 

Like  robe  of  kings.     I've  watched  the  bluffs  that  fling 

Their  broken  shadows  o'er  the  subject  sea  ; 

The  forelands  where  the  free,  far-travelled  gale 

Breaks  in  dark  wrath  or  breathes  in  summer  balm  ; 

The  lonely  lakelet,  like  a  silver  cup 

Set  round  with  emerald  amid  the  hills  ; 

The  iris  on  the  cold,  exhaling  spray 

Of  the  lone  waterfall,  as  it  descends 

Amid  the  verdure  of  a  thousand  firs, 

When  summer  wanders  thro'  the  waving  woods. 

I  know  old  Cheviot's  green,  round  summits,  which 

Watch  the  wide  ocean  spreading  out  afar, 

And  smile  upon  a  hundred  gushing  streams 

Beneath  his  feet,  from  Solway  to  the  Tweed : 

The  mountains,  too,  at  whose  far-stretching  base 

Rome  once  her  legions  mustered,  when  she  pierced 

The  Caledonian  forest  with  her  sword  : 

And  the  grey  peaks  of  Torridon  that  frown 

O'er  the  Atlantic  surges,  when  the  sun, 


line  395.]  BOOK  XII.  333 

Like  some  bright  bird  of  gold,  with  outspread  wings, 

Is  seen  escaping  into  Western  night. 

I  know,  too,  the  lone  islands  far  at  sea, 

The  ten  score  Hebrides,  whose  battlements 

Defy  old  ocean's  war,  and  countercheck 

The  long  rush  of  the  angry  Occident ; 

The  battered  clefts  between  whose  granite  walls 

The  surge  sweeps  booming,  where  the  brittle  wave, 

Caught  in  its  rising  by  the  tempest,  breaks, 

And  spreads  its  sparkling  fragments  o'er  the  shelf 

Of  the  brown  rock.     I  know  that  island-speck 

Of  giant  columns,  heaving  like  the  wreck 

Of  some  submerged  cathedral  of  past  ages, 

Which  had  gone  down  into  the  deep  and  left 

Its  organ-pipes  still  standing,  all  their  music 

Buried  for  ever,  while,  around  the  ruin, 

The  mocking  waves  roll  their  unfeeling  jar. 

I've  walked  the  mist-swept  moorlands  which  the  bard 

Has  peopled  with  the  fables  of  the  past, 

Where  Fingal's  sword  once  gleamed,  and  Ossian's  voice 

Threw  far  its  broken  notes  upon  the  wind  ; 

To  polished  ages  sending  down  the  bold 

Unchiselled  verses  of  the  olden  day  ; — 

Where  streamy  Carum  rolls  in  joy,  and  where 

The  trembling  dweller  of  the  rock  took  up 

His  harp,  to  sing  of  coming  war  and  death, 

The  haunts  of  mystery  where  the  shrieking  gale 

Scatters  the  waves  o'er  the  white  sands  of  Mora. 

'  Men  scorn  the  bareness  of  a  land  like  this, 
And  sing  of  the  gay  garden-vales  afar 
Where  flowers  send  up  their  thrilling  scent,  like  song. 


334  MY  OLD  LETTERS.         [line  426. 

They  say  the  heath  is  our  sole  garden  flower, 
Varied  sometimes  by  thistle  and  by  thorn. 
So  be  it :  yet  it  is  this  ruggedness 
That  has  so  marked  and  shapen  us,  engraving 
Its  own  peculiar  impress  on  our  foreheads, 
Moulding  our  mien,  our  song,  our  history. 
The  step  of  mountaineers  is  always  graceful, 
The  soul  of  mountaineers  is  always  free, 
The  song  of  mountaineers  is  always  clear. 

1  Such  is  the  land  I've  looked  on :  it  is  fair ; 
None  seemeth  fairer  to  my  eye  than  this 
But  what  of  all  its  beauty,  set  beside 
The  glory  of  the  realm  surpassing  thought ; 
Realm  of  the  living  and  the  holy,  where 
Of  beauty  the  perfection  dwells,  fit  realm 
For  perfect  and  immortal  eyes  to  gaze  upon. 

'  Into  that  land  the  wanderer  now  has  gone 
(I  said  within  myself) ;  out  of  this  cold 
He  has  gone  up  to  where  no  winter  comes. 
Sickness  is  changed  into  eternal  health  ; 
The  child  of  day  has  reached  the  light  at  last. 
I  wished  him  joy  that  night,  and  only  sighed 
Because  I  could  not  follow  him  ;  for  now 
The  icy  blast  blew  keener,  and  the  snow 
Smote  me  on  every  side,  and  blocked  my  way, 
Waking  me  up,  from  happy  reverie, 
To  the  sad  consciousness  that  I  was  still 
On  this  side  of  the  City,  many  a  mile 
Between  me  and  that  gate  across  whose  threshold 
The  shade  of  death  has  never  once  been  thrown. 


line  45^.]  BOOK  XII.  335 

1  Death,  how  I  hate  you  !  foe  of  man  and  God, 
First-fruit  of  sin  and  old  ally  of  hell ; 
Breaker  of  human  hearts,  and  poisoner 
Of  earthly  peace  ;  unseen,  but  mightier 
Than  all  that's  visible  ;  linked  with  no  clime 
Or  age,  but  claiming  all ;  who  enterest 
With  ease  where  armies  cannot  force  their  way, 
Mocking  the  barred  fort ;  whose  foremost  joy 
Is  to  lay  desolate  our  hearths  and  homes, 
To  break  the  links  of  love  and  rend  in  twain 
All  that  we  call  the  indissoluble  here  : 
To  fill  this  soil  with  graves,  and  spread  above  them 
The  smiling  turf  to  cover  thy  misdeeds, 
Rearing  the  stone  to  bid  it  tell  how  much 
Of  lost  affection  thou  hast  buried  there. 
Death !  how  we  loathe  thee  ;  even  when  thy  sting 
Has  been  plucked  out ;  and  how  we  daily  long 
Impatient,  yet  in  hope,  for  the  glad  day 
When,  for  the  havoc  thou  hast  wrought  on  earth, 
The  unrepented  slaughter  of  His  Saints, 
God  shall  Himself  arise  to  spoil  the  spoiler, 
And  pour  His  righteous  vengeance  on  thy  head  ! 
All  nature  hateth  thee,  dark  sorcerer, 
Under  whose  venomous  spell  her  beauty  pales. 
Thy  curse  is  upon  her  ;  her  curse  on  thee  : 
Which  shall  prevail  at  last  she  knows,  and  thou 
Knowest  right  well ;  O  thou  who  hast  so  long 
Into  corruption  turned  her  comeliness  ! 
Beneath  thy  wanton  touch  her  blossoms  die, 
Shape,  scent,  and  hue  all  smitten  by  thy  breath. 
Thy  rude  remorseless  hand  shakes  down  her  strength; 


336  MY  OLD  LETTERS.         [line  487. 

Thy  leaden  look  maketh  her  fair  check  wan, 

To  ashes  turns  her  glory,  brings  to  dust 

Her  power  and  grandeur,  so  that  all  she  was 

Becomes  as  tho'  it  was  not.     Mighty  death  ! 

What  sway  is  thine  ;  and  yet  that  sway  shall  cease  ! 

Thy  sceptre  shall  be  shivered,  and  thyself 

Cast  out  for  ever  ;  tho'  creation's  hope 

Seems  to  have  passed  away,  and  dull  despair 

Crept  over  man.     The  inarticulate  earth 

Sobs,  but  no  one  regardeth,  weepeth  sore, 

Like  Rachel  for  her  children  ;  but  they  come  not, 

And  vain  man  tells  her  they  shall  never  come. 

Yet  still  she  waiteth  on  ;  her  hills  and  vales 

Are  sighing  for  the  day,  when  from  above 

The  signal  shall  be  given,  and  the  great  shout 

Shall  rise  from  the  delivered  earth  and  sea 

Of  victory  won,  and  the  long  warfare  o'er. 

1  Upon  the  battle-plain,  where  blood  like  streams 
Moistened  the  soil,  and  bodies  of  the  slain 
Made  rich  the  barren  dust,  there  spring  bright  flowers, 
Unseen  before,  turning  the  moorland  waste 
Into  a  garden  ;  so  upon  the  soil 
Of  our  dead  joys,  our  slaughtered  hopes,  there  rise 
Flowers  of  unearthly  loveliness,  and  trees 
Of  broadest  shadow  and  of  sweetest  fruit. 
We  are  enriched  by  death  ;  our  highest  life 
Is  cold  corruption's  offspring,  and  the  grave 
The  parent  of  celestial  fruitfulness. 

1  And  need  they  then  the  gate  and  wall  and  tower, 
These  dwellers  in  the  Salem  that  shall  be  ? 


line  5 1;.]  BOOK  XII.  337 

Not  as  we  need  them  now ;  for  then  no  foe 
Assails  ;  no  fierce  Assyrian  more  shall  pitch 
His  tent  before  thee,  city  of  the  blest, 
Or  shake  his  spear  against  thy  palaces. 
No  Gentile  battle-axe  shall  ever  hew 
Thy  rampart  down,  or  thunder  at  its  bars. 
No  Roman  torch  shall  fire  thy  shrine,  or  light 
Thy  funeral  pyre ;  no  prophet,  false  or  true, 
Shall  mount  thy  walls  to  warn  of  coming  doom, 
Or  say,  Flee  out  of  her,  her  hour  is  come, 
Her  day  of  trouble  and  of  treading  down, 
Her  day  of  farewell  and  captivity. 

1  All  that  is  over  :  tears  are  wiped  away  : 
Thy  songs  shall  never  cease  ;  no  night  is  thine  ; 
No  death  can  find  its  way  into  thy  streets, 
Or  hang  its  drapery  upon  thy  walls. 
Thy  joy  is  full ;  thy  light  shall  never  fade, 
For  the  one  Sun  that  cannot  set  has  risen 
Upon  thee  with  its  holy  health  and  love. 

1  Why  need  they  then  these  gates,  even  tho'  of 
pearl  ? 
Not  as  they  needed  them  of  old,  against 
Assault  of  battle,  but  for  beauty,  as 
The  soul  the  body  needs,  the  stars  the  blue 
In  which  their  light  is  set ;  not  for  defence, 
But  to  enhance  the  splendour  and  the  joy. 

1  O  ever-open  gates,  that  without  voice 
Bid  a  perpetual  welcome  all  around, 
Beckoning  the  numbers  without  number  in  ! 
The  city-gates  of  earth  receive  alike 
The  evil  and  the  good  ;  but  ye  the  good 


338  MY  OLD  LETTERS.         [line  547. 

Admit  alone  into  the  unstained  city ; 
For  nothing  that  defileth  enters  there. 

1  Ye  silent  hands  and  knees  ;  ye  upturned  eyes 
Of  the  far-scattered  family,  who  o'er 
These  frozen  plains  of  earth  are  pressing  on 
To  the  one  common  home-land  ;  full  of  hope, 
Yet  pressed  with  burdens  others  know  not  of : 
I  think  of  you  !     The  sounds  of  revelry 
Are  all  about  you,  for  the  inebriate  world 
Rests  not,  nor  day  nor  night !     Its  wassail-cup 
Goes  round  the  city,  and  its  song  is  loud. 
The  notes  that  cheer  you,  children  of  the  light, 
Come  from  afar.     How  sweetly  do  they  steal 
In  on  the  ruffled  spirit,  4ike  night  odour 
From  gardens  all  in  bloom,  that  floateth  up, 
And  sweetly  thro'  the  cool,  calm  darkness  breathes 
Into  the  chamber,  where,  in  weariness, 
Fever  lies  tossing  on  its  burning  bed. 


1  But  now  I  quit  this  rocky  resting-place, 
Where  I  have  lain,  unmindful  of  the  hours, 
Which  like  so  many  dreams  have  come  and  gone ; 
And  take  my  onward  way,  to  tend  my  flock, 
Sore  needing  all  the  watchfulness  and  love 
That  a  poor  earthly  shepherd  can  bestow : 
And  as  I  go,  I  sing  the  ancient  hymn, 
To  shepherds  first  the  heavenly  Shepherd  came  ; 
Or  muse  upon  the  Church's  old  refrain, 
The  Lamb  redeems  the  sheep  ;  >and  call  to  mind 


line  575.]  BOOK  XII.  339 

The  old  father's  words,  just  such  as  suit  me  now, 
Feeding  their  sheep  they  found  the  Lamb  of  God. 

*  "  Only  a  shepherd,"  said  I  to  myself, 
As  I  moved  onward  ;  "  not  a  priest  am  I  ; 
Yet  of  the  royal  priesthood  I  am  part." 
I  wear  no  ephod,  and  I  shed  no  blood ; 
No  incense  and  no  censer  do  I  bear : 
Tis  not  with  fire  and  ashes  that  I  deal ; 
These  hands  no  victim  bind,  and  lift  no  knife 
To  slay  the  unblemished  lamb  at  morn  or  even. 
The  sacrifice,  with  which  I  daily  deal 
For  others  and  myself,  is  past  and  done : 
I  cannot  add  aught  to  its  potency. 
'Tis  once  for  all ;  no  poor  unfinished  rite 
That  needs  to  be  repeated  day  by  day. 
It  had  what  I  have  not,  and  what  my  doings 
Can  never  have, — perfection  infinite  ; 
And  that  prevails  for  me ;  in  it  I  stand, 
Received  of  God,  because  of  that  pure  life, 
And  that  great  death  accepted  in  my  name. 
I  do  not  eat  the  holy  presence-bread, 
Yet  have  I  bread  to  eat  which  others  know  not, — 
The  bread  of  God  which  giveth  dead  men  life, 
Celestial  fruit  that  maketh  sick  men  whole, 
And  nourishes  the  living  in  this  land 
Of  mortal  famine  ;  better  far  to  me 
Than  angel-viands,  the  eternal  bread 
Divine  and  true,  the  soul-sustaining  wine, 
From  a  celestial  banquet,  ever  new. 
I  do  not  stand  without,  as  one  in  dread, 
Nor  gaze  with  awe  upon  an  unrent  veil, 


340  MY  OLD  LETTERS.  [line  606. 

Or  sword  of  fire  that  threatens  death  to  me 
If  I  go  in  to  worship.     Nothing  now 
Of  danger  or  of  distance  or  of  death  ! 

1 1  do  not  come  to  sacrifice,  nor  raise 
Anew  an  altar  that  has  passed  away. 
And  yet  I  come  with  blessing  and  with  peace 
From  priestly  hands,  resistless  in  their  power, 
Able  to  cope  with  evil  at  its  worst, 
To  pluck  from  the  world's  heart  its  sharpest  thorn, 
"Whitening  its  reddest  stains,  eradicating 
Each  root  and  tendril  of  envenomed  ill, 
More  than  restoring  the  long-banished  joy. 
Then  shall  be  joy,  the  joy  of  sorrow  past 
And  evil  days  all  done  ;  of  ended  toil, 
And  well-rewarded  watching  here,  the  joy 
Of  the  great  gathering  of  the  scattered  flock 
To  the  one  fold  by  the  one  door,  when  He 
Of  the  sharp  sickle  and  the  golden  crown 
Shall  come  to  reap  the  harvest  of  the  ages  ! 

I  It  shall  be  morning  then  !     The  morn  of  morns, 
On  the  long  slopes  of  the  eternal  hills ! 

The  sun  that  bringeth  undecaying  health 
To  a  sick  world  shall  rise  ;  the  stars  depart, 
Unneeded  then.    And  with  that  dawn  shall  come 
All  the  good  things  that  morning  brings  with  it, 
Light,  song,  and  gladness  for  the  sons  of  men. 
Unbar  the  gate  of  morning  !     Let  it  fly 
Wide  open  with  its  amber  and  its  gold. 

I I  do  not  see  the  end,  and  yet  it  comes : 
I  see  no  change  in  seasons  or  in  years. 

They  keep  their  time,  unhastened  and  unstaid 


line  637.]  BOOK  XII  341 

By  human  changes  :  just  what  summer  was 

Two  thousand  years  ago  is  summer  now. 

The  fields  put  on  their  green  as  May  returns, 

And  the  flowers  know  their  months  ;  the  wind  takes  up 

Its  summer-harp,  and  thro'  the  long  rich  day 

Pours  its  new  melody  in  concert  with 

The  carol  of  the  streams,  the  mirth  of  waves, 

The  joy  of  blossoms  ;  and  the  ancient  sun 

Shines  as  at  first,  taking  his  well-known  place 

Each  morn,  still  fair  and  young,  and  undiscoloured 

By  the  smoke-taints  that  stain  our  thickened  air. 

Xo  poorer  are  the  stars  with  their  long  years 

Of  liberal  lending  to  a  needy  earth  : 

In  orbit,  motion,  sparkle,  still  the  same 

As  when  they  burst  upon  the  new-made  globe. 

All  things  continue  as  they  were,  above, 

Below ;  and  look  as  if  no  change  could  come, 

No  law  of  nature  suffer  a  reverse. 

'  But  yet  we  know  the  past  is  not  the  future, 
And  God  does  not  repeat  Himself;  we  may 
Be  nearer  the  grand  conflict  than  appears, — 
The  final  battle  between  ill  and  good 
That  shall  decide  this  planet's  destiny. 
Let  it  make  haste  ;  it  shall  be  welcome ;  not 
For  its  own  self,  but  for  the  peace  it  brings, 
The  victory  in  which  the  spoiler  shall 
Be  spoiled,  his  weapons  broken,  and  himself 
Bound  in  eternal  chains,  by  Him  who  came 
To  fight  our  battle  here,  and  to  undo 
Our  evil  and  to  conquer  earth  for  man. 

'  What  on  its  surface,  or  in  secret  depths 


342  MY  OLD  LETTERS.         [line  663. 

Of  its  infinity,  space  may  contain, 

Of  dormant  treasure  and  unquickened  good, 

Yet  to  arise  and  visit  its  vast  realms, 

We  know  not  now.     But  if  six  thousand  years 

Have  in  this  one  small  sphere  uncovered  stores 

So  measureless,  what  may  we  look  for,  when 

The  ages  of  the  ages  shall  reveal 

Their  still  unripened  hoards,  their  untouched  mines, 

Their  depths  to  which  no  plummet  has  gone  down  ! 

What  unimagined  harvests  may  we  not 

Reap  from  the  seed  sown  for  the  universe, 

In  this  rough  outfield  of  our  barren  earth, 

Where  the  eternal  Word  took  flesh  and  lived  ; 

Where  the  eternal  Son  bore  sin  and  died  ; 

From  which,  in  His  own  body,  He  has  carried 

Up  to  the  throne  our  very  dust,  a  pledge 

Of  all  things  glorious  to  be  done  and  seen, 

Not  here  alone,  but  thro'  creation,  when 

The  day  of  the  deliverance  shall  dawn  ! 

'  O  heaven  and  earth,  who  fathoms  your  profound  ? 
All  that  we  know  of  you  is  as  a  leaf 
From  some  interminable  forest-waste. 
O  time  and  space,  who  knoweth  what  ye  are  ? 
We  see  above  us  the  unmoving  vault 
Studded  with  gems.     But  what  are  ye  ?     And  whence 
Come  ye,  or  into  what  do  ye  move  on  ? 
Around  what  centre  do  your  orbs  revolve  ? 
Where  are  your  temples  and  your  palaces  i 
Or  to  what  hill  of  worship  do  your  tribes 
Go  up,  to  sing  the  universal  song  ? 
Ye  speak  to  us  of  things  beyond  what  eye 


line  699.]  BOOK  XII.  343 

Hath  seen,  the  unbeginning  and  unending. 
In  you  we  are  be-misted  ;  not  a  trace 
Of  footsteps,  save  the  few  around  our  tents  ; 
All  beyond  these  is  solitude  and  awe. 
That  star-beach,  which  men  call  the  Milky  Way, 
From  what  invisible  sea  hath  it  rolled  in  ? 
That  radiant  arrow,  light  zodiacal 
They  name  it,  from  what  quiver  hath  it  come  ? 
1  Sorely  and  long  has  this  sick  world  of  ours 
Needed  a  healer ;  for  her  wounds  are  deep, 
And  they  who  bind  them  up  but  mock  her  pain. 
Her  fever  runneth  high  ;  and  yet  she  says, 
"My  brain  is  tranquil,  and  my  eye  is  clear  ; 
There  is  no  riot  in  this  peaceful  pulse  : 
I  need  no  healing,  save  that  which  has  come 
From  the  old  tree  of  knowledge,  on  whose  fruit 
The  race  has  fed,  and,  feeding,  has  outgrown 
Its  infancy,  becoming  nobly  wise. 
Man  is  his  own  Messiah,  and  shall  soon 
Bring  all  things  under  his  self-potent  sway. 
Judge  of  what  God  has  spoken,  or  should  speak, 
Why  should  he  not  be  God,  if  not  to  others, 
At  least  to  his  own  self?     Why  should  he  not 
Discern  all  things,  the  evil  and  the  good  ? 
Why  should  he  not  defy  both  pain  and  death, 
And  be  himself  the  judge  of  wrong  and  right, 
Untrammelled  by  exterior  law  in  aught ; 
Uncircumscribed  in  liberty  or  thought 
By  writ  or  rescript,  human  or  divine  ; 
Unchallenged  in  his  claims  to  disbelieve 
Or  to  believe  what  seemeth  best  to  him  ? " 


344  MY  OLD  LETTERS.         [line  730. 

4  Man  thinks,  and  toils,  and  reasons,  but  the  race 
Reaches  no  higher  level :  sword  and  science 
Have  done  their  utmost,  but  the  world  is  not 
At  rest :  philosophy  looks  round  and  wonders  ; 
The  orator,  with  open  palm  persuading, 
Or  with  clenched  hand  denouncing,  does  his  work  ; 
But  the  deep  seat  of  evil  is  unreached  : 
The  statesman  marvels  at  the  helplessness 
Alike  of  steel  and  gold,  and  asketh  why 
It  is  so  difficult  to  minister 
Justice  and  order.     Human  voices  speak 
Nobly  and  well,  but  ever  speak  in  vain  ; 
They  all  are  but  the  signals  of  distress, 
The  rockets  fired  at  sea  to  call  for  help, 
Which  none  can  give,  for  each  man  needs  the  same, 

'And  still  the  wound  remains  unprobed,  uncured  ; 
The  head  still  acheth,  and  the  fever  rages ; 
A  few  years  turn  the  golden  head  to  grey ; 
The  sick-bed  tosses,  and  the  lazarhouse 
Still  moans  ;  man  maketh  war  with  death, 
But  death  takes  no  alarm  ;  it  holds  its  own, 
Unslackened  in  its  enmity  or  power, 
Pressing  to  every  lip  with  pitiless  hand 
The  mortal  aconite,  whose  silent  drop, 
Falling  alike  on  age  and  infancy, 
Dissolves  the  link  between  the  visible 
And  the  unseen  of  this  compounded  frame, 
Expels  the  soul,  and  leaves  the  body  dust, 
Filling  the  mould  with  graves,  the  air  with  sighs  ; 
Living  and  dead  alike  the  witnesses 
Of  a  malignant  foe,  whose  mastery 


line  761.]  BOOK  XII.  345 

Xo  skill  can  baffle,  and  no  strength  disarm. 

Man  girdeth  on  his  armour  for  the  war, 

But  takes  the  field  in  vain  :  unarmed  or  armed, 

Wary  or  rash,  the  issue  is  the  same  ; 

He  fights  a  foe  that  never  lost  a  field, 

Nor  shall,  till  the  long-promised  Conqueror  comes. 

Then  life  resumes  its  glory ;  this  dull  dust, 

Like  morning,  sparkles  into  loveliness 

Brighter  than  what  it  lost  when  it  lay  down. 

Ah  !  love,  and  iight,  and  peace,  long  banished  hence, 

Return  again  and  fill  this  vacant  earth, 

Which  long  has  missed  your  presence,  and  has  sighed 

For  your  return  and  stay  ;  when  shall  we  have 

Your  rainbow-visits,  then  no  longer  brief, 

Or  marked  by  clouds,  but  as  the  ages  long, 

And  numerous  as  the  happy  hours  of  day  ? 

1  Nothing  is  lost  of  good  that  ever  moved 
Across  the  face  of  this  tenacious  earth, 
Which,  with  most  jealous  grasp,  like  miser's,  holds, 
Unseen,  unfelt,  the  imperishable  life 
Which  once  it  nourished  ;  and  the  light  of  ages 
Is  stored  for  coming  ages,  purged  and  winnowed 
From  all  depraving  grossness,  and  all  leaven 
Of  mutinous  evil  such  as  taints  it  now. 
Xo  failure  more  in  creaturehood  ;  the  height 
Is  reached  ;  descent  becomes  impossible. 
Then  the  "  Survival  of  the  fittest "  comes  ; 
But  He  alone  selects  the  fittest  who 
Made  every  atom,  moveth  every  star, 
Giving  to  each  its  proper  law  of  being. 

'  We  wrong  creation  and  we  wrong  ourselves  : 


346  MY  OLD  LETTERS.         [line  792. 

Our  masters  are  within  us  ;  we  are  not 

The  freemen  that  we  think  ;  we  do  not  see 

Our  bonds  and  scourges,  but  the  tyranny 

Is  not  the  less  disastrous.     Freedom  comes 

All  from  without ;  the  law  of  liberty 

Owneth  a  gravitation  not  of  earth. 

The  law  of  life,  and  progress,  and  ascent, 

Is  something  which  we  only  guess  at  here. 

Evil  is  bondage,  and  it  works  by  law  ; 

By  law  alone,  then,  can  it  be  annulled, 

And  man  made  master  of  himself  once  more. 

*  Age  rolls  on  age,  and  all  are  big  with  meaning  ; 
Each  era  has  its  thought,  or  great  or  small, 
Or  false  or  true,  and  the  thought  marks  the  age. 
We  know  some  by  their  songs,  and  others  by 
Their  silence  ;  others  by  their  storm  and  cloud  ; 
Few  by  their  sunshine,  for  the  age  of  sunshine 
Is  yet  to  come, — end  of  eclipse  and  gloom, 
End  of  all  failure  and  all  feebleness, 
Of  misplaced  purposes  and  wasted  lives  ; 
When  retrogression  shall  be  known  no  more, 
But  all  be  progress,  ever  on  and  up, 
To  levels  higher  than  all  science  dreams. 
Dawns  the  fair  day  of  knowledge  when  we  pluck 
The  unforbidden  tree,  and  are  made  wise, 
W7hen  holy  rule  knits  the  whole  world  in  one, 
And  the  true  comity  of  nations  comes, — 
One  throne,  one  brotherhood,  and  God  Himself 
Leading  the  glory  of  unfolding  life, 
Throughout  the  expanding  universe  of  joy, 
The  first,  the  last,  the  all  of  space  and  time. 


line  823.]  BOOK  XII.  347 

The  potency  of  sin  has  been  unveiled  ; 

The  cancerous  taint,  the  deep  and  terrible 

Evil  of  evil,  has  through  ages  dark 

Been  brought  to  view,  and  the  one  cure  of  all, 

Resistless  and  enduring,  now  is  found. 

Health  of  the  world,  thou  everlasting  cross  ! 

Diffuse  thy  balm,  and  bid  humanity 

Sit  down  beneath  thy  shadow,  there  to  rest, 

Safe  from  the  tempter  and  his  subtle  snare, 

Beyond  the  dread  of  ill.     The  years  of  peril 

Have   not    been    few ;    often    has    hope's  fond 

finger 
Been  pointed  to  some  gleam  between  the  clouds  ; 
And  oft  the  cheated  heart  has  gaily  said, 
But  said  in  vain,  The  promised  calm  has  come  ! 

1  Yet  not  in  darkness  do  we  worship  here, 
Nor  bow  before  an  unknown  God.    The  night 
Of  signs  is  passed  :  God  dwelleth  not  in  symbols, 
Nor  hides  Himself  in  altars  ;  the  red  smoke 
Of  sacrificial  fire  has  cleared  away, 
And  shadows  only  blind,  misteach,  ensnare  ; 
Our  eyes  and  ears  do  but  betray  our  souls ; 
In  hands  of  sensuous  man,  all  symbolism 
Or  soon  or  late  becomes  idolatry. 

'Thou  unborn  light,  descending  from  above, 
Making  the  dead  alive,  the  prisoner  free, 
We  bid  thee  welcome  !     Light  of  charity, 
Such  as  earth  knows  not  of,  nor  yet  has  seen, 
Full-beaming  in  the  face  of  Him  who  is 
The  world's  one  Light,  break  in  upon 
The  ancient  mists,  and  bring  the  blessed  noon! 


348  MY  OLD  LETTERS.         [line  853. 

Hell  cannot  stay  Thee  in  Thy  radiant  march, 
Nor  the  deep  grave  bar  Thy  victorious  way. 

1  Love  is  not  beauty,  beauty  is  not  love, 
As  some  have  taught ;  yet  both  are  linked  together, 
Mother  and  daughter,  each  her  proper  self, 
And  yet  inseparable  in  their  joy, 
Like  sun  and  summer  !     Both  I  see  afar, 
Advancing  hand  in  hand,  ere  long  to  fill 
Alike  the  lower  and  the  upper  sphere 
With  the  perfection  they  alone  can  give. 
Life  brightens  with  the  brightness  that  is  shed, 
Not  only  from  what  has  been,  but  from  what 
Is  yet  to  be.     Let  the  whole  earth  rejoice : 
These  are  not  clouds  that  hang  above  it,  but 
The  avenue  thro'  which  we  enter  in     , 
To  light  above  all  light,  there  to  sit  down 
As  sons  of  peace  in  peace's  inmost  hall. 
Thro'  these  dim,  winding  ages  of  the  mortal, 
Life  threads  its  way  to  that  which  cannot  die. 

1  As  yet  the  time  is  not ;  maturity 
Of  ill  as  well  as  good  God  waiteth  for. 
For  unripe  evil,  just  as  unripe  good, 
He  will  not  pluck  ;  'tis  ripeness  that  He  deals  with. 
O  deadly  clusters  of  the  poisoned  vine, 
When  will  ye  ripen  for  the  vintage  ?     When 
Shall  the  dread  voice,  long  listened  for,  be  heard, — 
The  voice  of  Him  who  sittcth  on  the  cloud  ? 
Thrust  in  Thy  sickle,  for  the  hour  is  come ; 
Gather  the  clusters  of  the  vine  of  earth 
For  the  great  wine-press  of  the  wrath  of  God. 
But  meanwhile  here  we  toss,  and  dream,  and  wake, 


line  884.]  BOOK  XII.  349 

Like  sick  men  ill  at  ease  ;  we  would  be  gone  ; — 
But  who  shall  lift  us  out  of  all  this  ill, 
Loosing  our  bonds  and  bidding  us  go  free  ? 
Upwards  we  cast  our  home-sick  eyes,  to  see 
If  some  stray  angel,  passing  by,  will  not 
Have  pity  on  us,  and  remove  us  hence. 
Wait,  starlight,  wait,  we  say,  as  we  look  out 
On  some  dim  dawn  after  a  broken  night ; — 
Wait,  starlight,  wait,  tho'  but  for  one  brief  hour  ; 
We  will  go  with  you,  for  our  souls  are  sick 
With  the  wild  roar  of  this  poor  drunken  earth. 
We  dread  another  day,  with  all  the  clamour 
Which  it  will  bring.     Oh,  wait  and  take  us  with  you 
Upon  your  beamy  wings.     Nearest  and  purest, 
Thou  gem  of  sweetness,  star  of  holy  dawn, 
Let  us  go  with  thee,  and  it  shall  be  well ! 
Thy  city  shall  be  ours,  thy  home  our  home, 
Where  we  shall  rest  beyond  this  withering  strife. 
Nothing  shall  part  us,  sweetest  star  of  heaven, 
Half  silver  and  half  gold,  fair  dove  of  dawn  ! 
Oh,  take  us  with  thee  ;  we  have  loved  thee  long, 
And  fain,  fain  would  have  been  with  thee  ere  now. 
Canst  thou  not  stoop  to  take  us  ?     Or  drop  down 
Some  silver  cord,  strong  with  eternal  light, 
To  lift  us  to  your  land  of  shadeless  morn, 
Where  not  a  cloud  obscures  the  jewelled  azure  ; 
Where  nothing  dies,  where  nothing  lives  in  vain  ; 
Where  light  is  light,  and  love  is  without  change ; 
No  hollow  promises,  nor  fevered  hands 
Clasping  love's  hand  in  vain  ;  no  pallid  lips, 
Pressed  close  together  in  the  agony 


350  MY  OLD  LETTERS.         [line  915. 

Of  farewells  that  send  back  the  burning  blood 

Cold  to  the  heart ;  no  disappointed  faith, 

Weary  with  waiting  ;  no  red  stains  of  sin 

Falling  upon  us  ;  no  foreboding  dreams 

Of  what  to-morrow  may  bring  forth  ;  no  fears 

Of  failure  for  ourselves  or  others  then  ; 

No  vessels,  that  once  seemed  at  anchorage, 

Slipped  from  their  moorings  to  go  down  at  sea  ; 

No  pillaged  derelicts,  that  once  were  barques 

Of  noble  name  and  goodly  freight,  as  if 

Earth's  mines  had  poured  their  riches  into  them  : 

No  widow's  wail  nor  orphan's  sob  is  yonder  ; 

No  piteous  songs  of  madness  or  of  grief; 

No  care-begotten  furrows  of  the  brow 

That  should  have  been  all  marble  in  its  smoothness  ; 

No  midnight  shadows,  no  disastrous  stars 

Darting  their  distant  poison  down  on  man  ; 

No  splintering  bolt  of  fire,  no  sullen  surge 

Of  the  sad  ocean  watching  for  its  prey  ! 

1  Roll  up,  ye  clouds,  and  let  the  sun  burst  thro' ! 
Earth  needs  it  all !     Too  long  have  been  the  years 
Of  shade  and  frost.     Dissolve  the  fixed  ice 
That  sits  upon  each  mountain-top,  and  sends 
Down  on  our  valleys  its  benumbing  chill. 
One  day  of  that  deep  sunshine  will  undo 
Dark  years  of  frost.     Draw  up  these  mists,  O  sun, 
That  drench  us  with  their  cold,  unmeaning  spray, 
And  clear  the  troubled  air  of  sighs  and  dreams  ; 
Breathe  lovingly,  thou  balmy  breeze  of  dawn, 
Shake  the  last  rain-drops  from  the  forest-boughs ; 
Raise  the  crushed  violets,  which  the  heavy  foot 


line  946.]  BOOK  Xll.  35 1 

Of  the  hard  hurricane  had  trodden  down  ; 
Swell  out,  O  voice  of  the  expanding  song  ; 
Into  one  holy  concord  gather  up 
The  squandered  melodies  of  time,  supplant 
The  jar  of  ages,  strike  the  unknown  chord  ; 
Still  the  world's  wild  waltz-music, — siren-sweet 
And  quick  with  sudden  fire  to  kindle  up 
All  youth's  warm  blood  into  the  fever-heat 
Of  passion,  with  its  too  delicious  thrill. 

'  Swing  the  great  censer  ;  let  the  holy  fire 
Evoke  the  fragrance,  scattering  healthful  balm 
From  hands  that  knew  no  sin,  and  from  a  shrine 
Into  which  evil  never  found  its  way. 
Creation  waiteth  for  the  healing  breath 
Of  Him  from  whom  all  sickness  flees,  whose  cross 
Struck  into  earth's  dark  soil  shall  be  the  cure 
For  all  creation's  ills,  tho'  planted  there 
By  hands  of  men  who  knew  not  what  they  did, 
Nor  how  from  it  a  purged  world  should  rise. 

'Roll  out,  ye  incense-wreaths,  diffuse  your  sweetness  ; 
Do  battle  with  the  curse,  and  overcome  it ; 
Wipe  off  each  trace  of  the  old  serpent's  slime ; 
Revivify  the  blasted  wastes  of  death  ; 
Bring  back  to  sea  and  air  their  primal  calm  ! 
Man  has  been  struggling  with  this  froward  clay 
For  ages,  but  has  failed  ;  its  barrenness 
Defies  his  skill  and  toil.     O  priestly  breath 
Of  One  more  potent  than  a  child  of  sin, 
Go  forth  and  do  thy  work  upon  this  earth ! 
Clothing  with  gladness  the  desponding  hills, 
And  disinfecting  this  hot  atmosphere, 


352  MY  OLD  LETTERS.         [line  977. 

Tainted  for  ages  with  the  fetid  breath 

Of  human  sin.     Call  into  vernal  bloom 

Nature's  long-budding  beauty,  checked  and  marred 

With  cruel  frost,  or  seared  into  abortion 

By  suns  too  fierce  to  ripen  or  expand. 

1  O  sunny  feast-days  of  the  Church  of  God, 
That  with  the  happy  seasons  come  and  go, 
Each  with  diffusive  joy  its  glory  shedding 
On  the  low  scenes  of  earth,  and  making  bright 
The  gloom  of  common  days  ;  when  shall  ye  spread 
Over  creation  all  your  mirth  and  beauty, 
Lifting  the  low  into  the  high,  transfiguring 
The  meanest  things  that  be  to  comeliness, 
Such  as  ye  only  know,  impregnating 
The  universal  air  with  breath  from  Him 
Whose  breath  is  life,  whose  love  the  sacred  light 
That  fills  the  holy  city,  and  lights  up 
That  hall  wherein  the  one  great  feast  is  held, 
In  which  shall  end  the  festivals  of  time  ? 

'  Draw  bridle  now  ;  the  home-gate  comes  in  view, 
Quick  lights  are  glancing  from  each  window-pane, 
The  flag  from  the  old  turret  signals  peace, 
And  voices  from  within  shout,  Welcome  home ! ' 


THE  END. 


